This is to say nothing against afternoons, evenings or even midnight. Each has its portion of the spectacular. But dawn — dawn is a gift. Much is revealed about a person about his or her passion, or indifference, to this opening of the door of day. No one who loves dawn, and is abroad to see it, could be a stranger to me.
Welp, I read this, and then a poem happened.
**Edit: OKAY fuck, good, now i think that does it, the last of the tweaks and no-that’s-not-it-yet, 15 hours later.
thank god, now i can move on with my life.
“Dawn is a gift”, Mary says, and I seem to flinch
My eyes dart and my head tics and my brow tightens. Why?
I say to my own stance, explain yourself
Because it can’t be that it isn’t,
Dawn is a gift, of course it’s a gift,
- which says nothing of a giver, it is only a way of saying thank you, we are a grateful animal, humans,
we look at the sky and we are so overwhelmed with gratitude that we name somebody to thank, we make an entreaty to a maker because we must, we didn’t buy it, we didn’t make it, we didn’t earn it,
Gifts barrage us and so we cry, “Thank you!”
The way we might cry “Why!”
or “Who are you!”
Why? Why, then? I have started, I have frowned, but of course it’s a gift, so why? Inside I crouch and protect. Why?
Was it always a gift?
It was always a gift but it has never been only a gift. It isn’t just a gift, dawn. Dawn is a duty.
I saw dawn upside-down all the time and once I told my mother, Mum, I sat in my window before sleeping and the whole sky was pink and orange, Mum, I saw the whole thing through the front yard maple, between the neighbours’ houses it was just perfect, I could see a faraway giant as a rising penny on fire, turning the whole sky into a temporary splash of something celebratory, sweet and rich, colours that are secrets the whole sky keeps from everybody, listen, Mum I am trying to tell you,
I am trying to share this,
you missed it,
I got to see it, Mum, it was a revelation and nobody was there I’ve got to tell you about it!
She was like a wounded doe and I was a ghost of a child, or perhaps just a faun gone mad, exuberant and delirious, and she, too weary to put anything into the air I was twirling in but the weight that came off her in waves, her heavy pain, she was still and I couldn’t understand. I knew I was a sliver of myself. I had found such a beautiful angle, if I turned just so I thought I could shine that skyful of juicy
light straight to her for her to drink. She saw only my absence and felt only her loss. She felt mine, too, because she thought I couldn’t.
Why did I flinch? Dawn is a gift.
Dawn was a gift that hit me with a pound to the chest and I was particles, immediately. I had no Thank You for this. I hadn’t the steamer trunk for treasures inside that a self has, I had no inside, no outside, that light refracted blindingly among my atomized insufficiency of a being and I begged to share it with someone with the strength to have their own cohesion, don’t give this to me!!! I entreated at the whole
And I knew, dawn is a duty.
Not only a duty to share – that was desperate, I cannot call that a fulfillment of duty.
I knew that dawn is an overture and that I didn’t need to write the searing masterpiece to come, but I did need to be able to listen for it, that I needed to be composer enough to hear it. And I knew that I was
I knew that I had no ears that could last the impact of any phrase. I knew I dissolved a thousand times a day into fleeing, clashing, resonating dust, hoping to be mistaken for grace notes going somewhere.
I knew that I was worse than nothing, that my transience was a manifest fantasy that I had trapped myself in, that I had willed myself insubstantial.
I knew I was an ugly conglomeration of clay and filth that swallowed sound. I knew I could not live up to my duty, that I couldn’t hear the beauty, that I was colourblind and an eyesore.
I begged her to see, I had found her a morning and I could be a mirror for an instant!
She saw only a raving cloud, or perhaps an infant in a nightmare.
“Dawn is a gift,” Mary said. I flinched.
There is distraction in the afternoon, cacaphony at rush hour, delusion, pretty, sometimes, at dusk. Sometimes, in the darkest part of the morning, hours before noise, eyes blinking in thin air, there is repose.
dawn is a gift, and like most gifts that taste of love and true things, it is terribly heavy.
I flinched because once, and for a long time, dawn was more weight than light. Dawn shone brutally on being an intractable coagulation of pain and parts, my voice cast inward where it sank hideous and deafening into myself, there could be no apology for being this black hole, eating light and beauty. Dawn either exploded me; brittle, vapid;
or it leaned the enormous mass of the sun upon me; impenetrable.
Dawn is a gift and how well I knew it, I would swoon, if I were well, if I were worthy, if I knew how, I might have danced,
I might have been able to let it in, to hold it, to sing it, dawn! I knew very well about dawn!
But I was sick.
And I didn’t know how.
And I resisted.
At dawn, at a gift, I brace myself to stop the exposure of a beast; no - it’s to stop the evaporation of gossamer; no - no my diaphragm is a muscle
that bears and protects lungs and heart that will not be splintered by sunrise, now,
a muscle that expands joyfully. strong.
and I only brace myself in honour of the sick.
Inside my self I keep an instrument that sings an aubade of grateful undertaking in billlowing exhales. A love song to dawn, which insisted.