I drive my family crazy, wanting to know the end
of films before they’ve begun and reading novels
last chapter first. That ruins it, I’m told. For me no
more than knowing the end to my own story steals its
joy. I want to invest the right amount of affection,
not be overly fond of the handsome one who gets a
sword through the throat, or give too much of myself
to a mother and child who do not see the final page.
If they die, I still want to know how. If they never
marry, I still want to know why. In fact, the knowing
beforehand makes me more attentive as with a lover
sure to bring climax, one can yield to the journey.
Why the venom towards spoilers? There’s still no
defusing the bomb, no delivering the letter that never
comes, no escaping betrayal. Like the sibyl over her
vent or Atropos at her loom, I can change nothing.
Yet still I watch, muttering and pointing. Indeed,
I stay to the shadow’s final shadow, transfixed.
[Refer: This poem refers to the image accompanying Thomas Larson’s essay “In the Guise of Telling the Truth.”]
Image by quattrostaginio
Devon Balwit wears many hats in Portland, Oregon. Her poetry does likewise. Some homes it has found: Leveler, drylandlit, Birds Piled Loosely, The Fog Machine, The Fem, Dying Dahlia Review, The Yellow Chair, The Cape Rock, The Prick of the Spindle, The NewVerse News, Of(f) Course, and 3 Elements.