Quod Nihil Scitur
I am living inside a wall without metaphors. —Thomas Merton
I want words with you. Are you too far to reach now?
I need to know what you mean when you say Queen of Heaven,
I love you. I’ve fallen in battle over my soul. How swift
the current, how far from shore the sea carries the body.
I read you. I read Pessoa. My skeptic, my mystic! Who claims me?
Stuck as I am in a place where I no longer know what is metaphor.
If only we could speak, face to face, my hand at rest on your shoulder.
But of course, there is that vow. The silence, and how, in the monastery,
you sign. We sign too, outside where the earth is as godly as ever,
and people perform their daily violence. I go inside and become more lost
day by day. Am I not a contemplative, a sister? Just because I can’t feel
God’s touch on my shoulder? I try, dammit. You have your dry moments
too, even in your garb. You were writing for a reason of reach.
You can have all that I am. Even this sharp pain at my sternum.
I hear your answers: 1) Nothing is known; 2) Even with your eyes
aching and your head spinning, how good it is to be alone in silence.