Life is like that, isn’t it? Ordinary. Gray. Numb. You’re socked in on all sides, and surrounded by suicide weather. When there’s no color in sight, it’s easy to find yourself slipping under.
Then something happens that leaves you in pieces. How can I explain it?
How after years spent looking through a window, cloudy and streaked, at life outside carrying me along — blind and groping in a dark room — that it would break and shatter at my feet, my eyes wide open and everything bright and clear and sharp enough to cut me. To be stripped down, burst open, and left tingling from the inside out. No separation between my spirit and the space around me.
Life after death.
I think that’s what they call it.
Beth Dulin is a writer and artist living on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. She is a graduate of the New School’s Eugene Lang College. Her poems appear in The American Journal of Poetry, Indolent Books What Rough Beast, and High Shelf Press, and are forthcoming in Gargoyle, and Yes Poetry. She is the author and co-creator of Truce, a limited edition artists’ book, in the collections of the Brooklyn Museum and the Museum of Modern Art. Visit her online at www.bethdulin.com