Mei Berssenbrugge
THE MEMBRANE
In lower orders up to the mammal
a membrane
with its terribly narrow third dimension
still passed equally in both directions
The cargo itself changed
You could still believe
writhing through its tight reticulations
you might return, almost yourself
if you were strong enough
like a hero
but this next one is perfect
It takes everything in and uses it
perfectly, with no communication
Oh sometime in your sleep
on a dark night you might press your hand
toward a cool sheet
and brush against it like the womb wall
and be burned
That remains as a heavy ignorance the next day
or you might kill something
with your car when you are tired
When a thing leaves us
it no longer knows us
We miss it by the shape our senses
impress from habit into the rooms
where we hear it breathing
We're mad it knows something
now like a big voice or a sea
or the spider in front of the membrane
When a dead thing cuddles into its grave
like a minute we pity ourselves
cancel our myths
