Imago

 

We all have it somewhere, a figure ill-informed and compositely made.

 

Mine begins like this: part-womb and part-breast, and hair of dark stars. There are wrinkles, faces mostly turned away or altogether absent, save on the specialist of days. It is not rounded. Mostly I study the back. I remain.

Fine-featured then, since I’m left to my own, hips holding rooms and breasts short by half. A particular’d elegance and a voice that soothes, all things I add to what’s missing.

I can smell her or him, scented of pollen and silt. I remain on the lookout, shaping the notes as lines on a canvas, rain over sky.

I believe it appears, here and there, a savior, a teacher, an object to adore. When faced with a mountain or storm I learn more. A natural wonder. There’s awe in the outline.

And passion. Words on a page, notes on a scale, a scintillant stirring.

It comes to light and it sings. In its movements, its promise, its sounds. I embrace and the figure is blurred. My dark shadow. It walks away, or I retreat and recoil.

It looks like this: fluid and sturdy, lithe and filled with quiet fuel. Eternal source (a womb, a breast) and distant constellation (object of desire) otherwise function of the Muse, symbol and seed woven together.

To follow after, and derive. Layered with impossible nourishment, what infinity breeds.