Tell me, Herr Titian,
what should I prefer,
light as emanation,
or emanation as light?
X, gamma, ultraviolet,
infrared, radio, and visible:
like you, my reason for
existence is motiveless,
kinetic force
hauling my
slackened frame
from bed each morning.
Instead of doctors, I'm given
a construction crew or two.
I see you through the mist,
as if shrouded in cellophane.
O, darling packaged mass
of curdled meat brains . . .
If only we were all able
to die as gracefully—
L'Arc de Ciel, from scream
to scream—as you.
©
is the author of Vox Populi, and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (forthcoming, Noctuary Press), Virginia Konchan's poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The Believer, The New Republic, and Verse. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she lives in Montreal.
We’ve published two more poems by Konchan: “Diamond Sutra” and “Cemetery Montparnasse.”
