One Poem by Laura Deutsch

Game of the Gambler

The hotel has infinite rooms,
each one is haunted.
A generation caught
in between old mythologies and
new ones - an eternal loss repeating
each time we are born back into Time.


Bound between realities, the ones
I have felt and the ones that have happened -
that little crack in them that sometimes opens too quickly:
How do you fight something that is who you are,
a demented map in the shape of you?


            I feel like an egg that won’t crack.
                       Or,
            one that has cracked into
            so many pieces that there
            is no possibility of fusion, no hope


                    But no,
                           that is too worthy of a path for me.


I lack the energy
to excite a crack like that.


Perpetually before
the starting line,
wide open to curses. I forgot a long
time ago how to light it.
After enough confrontations,
there is a welcome descent in walking down stairs.


I remember a dream telling him to do the back float.
Certain explosions go off in one reality and I know I am there,
and if you can’t shake off the lead coat
you must accept the picture as it stands.

Pray that the fog is a signal.

Every element must suffer itself
if it is ever to experience form.


I keep meeting me
a thousand steps back:
something about the aorta
the way it expands and contracts,
that is how the energy moves, I am certain.


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