‘What can’t be explained’, ‘Notes on online therapy’ & ‘Unraveling’

Lindsay Liang

What can’t be explained

Scientists have yet to pinpoint the fault that rattled much 

of the Northeast. It left no surface rupture. (NBC News)

Colors can be easily explained,

but not why I love black ink

and feel neutral towards blue.

And Why love? Don’t tell me

it’s biochemistry or a construct

of society—there’s something 

more—an unexpected whistling 

like grass in a breeze 

or the knock of stone on stone

when the tide comes in.

I know truth is music, by instrument

or accident, an arising of this earth.

I know space is not a vacuum

but I doubt its rhythm

would make me tap my toes.

My grandparents’ cellar smelled 

of oil tank and home-made wine.

The walls were fieldstone 

patched with fresh cement.

Rubber treads disintegrated

on the creaking stairs.

It was like entering a catacomb

Returning to the light, I’d smell 

coffee percolating in a glass pot

and hear the chair beside the stove

rock as if it wasn’t empty.

Notes on online therapy

Her screen tilts so I see
the exposed ceiling
vague shapes of pipes
and ducts
white on white on gray
There must be more
Her words lose themselves
in something that feels
substantial

I am a postage stamp
missing the scallop of serration
glued to the lower right-hand
corner of the screen
So I won’t focus on myself?
Or isn’t that the point?

We tend to speak at the same time
perhaps because we are in synch
Perhaps because we aren’t.
Only half a mile apart
yet tinny waves collide
the pattern of disturbance

I take notes as quickly
as I can which are
barely legible:
Take a long time
before you answer
and we only have
half an hour

At my back
swims an ocean
before me light softening
sheer curtains

She smiles off-kilter
Her voice reverberates
caught in my speaker
or her microphone:

How did that make you feel?

Unraveling

I was her last hope. I was her only hope. I was living on instant coffee and Marlboro Lights and the not-for-individual-sale packets of Milano cookies I stole from the snack cupboard at my night job. 

I worked two jobs. I worked three jobs. I worked uptown and downtown. I worked in the bedroom of my leaky roof apartment. I owned a hammer but could not find it.

She brought a Canadian whiskey box of books. She brought spiral notebooks half-filled with torn out pages. She brought notecards with pink emphasis. She brought an illustrated volume of Jung so large it never fit anywhere. It was hopeless without me.

My shingles were loose, but I had a stained glass window and a backyard. I planted zinnias and tomatoes with a fork and spoon. Leggy and fragile, they held their seed leaves. One morning, when I awoke, everything was gone. Her writing was illegible. Her books were duplicates of mine. The Crown Royal box was perfect for a move.

I was a temporary person. I was a hopeless person. I must have been drinking beer or else  I would have disappeared. My cat ran away. My cat came back. I collected shreds of tobacco but no shreds of hope.

She gave me everything. I was her only hope. I was not a magician but around me, things disappeared. I never drank too much but always drank enough. The cat died of old age. Torn paper dampened and swelled.

Where did she come from? How did she know me? The facts have disappeared. Where did she go?

I carry her things from life to life, attic to basement, state to state. I continue to be famous for not being myself. The cardboard collapses. Paper edgings spiral in my heart. Where is my hammer? I am the person who can do anything. It is hopeless without me. 

Ellen White Rook is a poet, writer, and contemplative arts teacher living in southern Maine. She offers writing workshops and leads retreats that combine meditation, movement, and writing. Ellen holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Suspended, her first collection of poetry, was released by Cathexis Northwest Press in May 2023. Visit her website at ellenwhiterook.com.