for Jesse / by Siobhán Cronin

There are many ways a human body can move. 

There are many ways to move a human body. 

There are many ways a plant can move. 

There are many ways to move a plant. 

There are many rhythms that pulse between life and death. 

Many temperaments one can use to tune the mind.

Effort can be traced in gestures of care and destruction along axes of scale and intention perceptible and imperceptible to ourselves and others.

We can align with the nothing until all is nothing and is remembered as everything.

When the lights go flash, and the sounds go boom, will we bury our faces into the mud just to taste the memory of rain?

Come with me. I have made a room of paper and light to materialize the immaterial. 

Sit here so you can see. 

I will oscillate between fever and care, while you notate the overtones. 

This room will hold its form as imagination fractures how we know our bodies. 

There are many ways to live.

You told me once I would never know where you go when you go inside. 

There are many was to die. 

You told me once you catalyzed sugars until your skin was sticky sunlight. 

There are many ways to live. 

You told me once we could change the fundamentals.

There are many ways to die. 

And perhaps what I will remember most from that evening so many years ago in the room of light and paper, was how your hands thrust towards a chair with the blindness of human history, and yet, in a sliver of a fraction of a moment, I saw it, I saw you, I saw the years you spent dragging our inherited heritage of rage through rivers, sheets, tears, and rooms where you shouted and shouted and shook, until you retrained the untrainable, the wholly grail of instinct, which I saw in that moment as your hands, suspended in the air, forgot their dream of destruction and chose to hold nothing instead.