She stepped into her final watercolour:
a free-form impression that left behind
old portraits – of one’s own – in a room,
empty and still. Her carriage of conveyance
no longer weighed down by the burden
of her subjection to trapped character.
She knew that grounded embodiment
was merely a convenience of orientation,
and that in her hidden subterranean depths
a deeper calling was floating her
from the gravity that did not become her.
Her sketch bloated, but failed to flesh out
her discrete frame caged by orthodoxies.
Her fragmented selfhood, singularly inappropriate,
could not be contained within stiff boundaries.
Instead, she aspired and glided out,
smearing her palette with aquarelle images
that eddied in the impermanency
of creative destruction. Sensations,
implicated in the flow that surrounded her,
swirled and bore witness to the anchorage
of pockets of cold, hard stones dragging her down.
Her identity, weft, interwoven,
was tunnelled from a past - sealed and amiss -
that conjured scribbled, half-forgotten spectres.
Lost flotsam constantly resurfaced
around the bends of a remote backwater,
and ducked beneath the still surface
having escaped her desecrated, sunken locker.
Material confinements of bearing and frock
took flight to allow concealed sighs
to celebrate her moments of being.
Being that could shift and wisp beyond grasps
of soured internment, into patterns
that would dance between acts of contingency.
Swirled and dappled and transitory,
she tried to fend back those shadowed facets
that flickered and dimmed and threatened
to ebb away, in waves, her fragile vision.
She hovered, in epiphanic moments,
between an illumination of human celebration
and the impersonal death-dealt drift
of years and physical decay.
Losing herself between silted banks
her strength dissolved, as the tyranny
of her desperate buoyancy became overloaded.
Awash in a seamless flow
that could not be landlocked by the lure
of lantern gig lamps, she searched at sea
for the rhythmic mirage of a luminous lighthouse,
realizing that significance was a mystery,
evoked through texture and tone,
knowing that substance, although focused,
was as crude and deadening as mud.
She breathed a language that spoke of
the impermanence of life, while others drowned
in explication and petrified inscription.
Her courage was to smooth etched tablets
of tradition with pockets of air that would rise,
after her drift, into a flowing freedom
of released bubbles. Marooned and damaged,
she tired of swimming in the swash of vacillating currents
that swayed between rigid polarities.
Sinking, weaving a tread of stepping stones
that led away from her stream of consciousness
to a river of uncontainable force,
she lost control – for there she was –
and oozed from the fixity
of being Virginia.