On the Verge

Sometimes a straightaway belies a curvy journey ahead. Essex area drivers and cyclists en route to Whallonsburg and beyond will be familiar with the view below. Two laser beam lanes with a wiggly warning. Perhaps it’s the unbending yellow centerline on black asphalt paired with a serpentine black arrow on a yellow warning sign. Perhaps it’s the promise of curves, always my preference over predictable point-to-pointing. Perhaps it’s the unsubtle reminder that we’re on the verge…

But on the verge of what? So much flux in this liminal chapter. Thresholds and interstices. Transitions and transformations. Beginnings and endings…

While contemplating the photograph above an uncanny happening: my daily poetry installment from the Academy of American Poets delivered a thoughtful meditation that included this.

My mother says when she is anxious she finds a seam,  
finds stitches on her clothes, on furniture she’s near, always  
a verge has that feel, birch joints, wrinkles. It’s a relief 
to think with the hands…

— Bradley Trumpfheller, “Loom” (Source: Academy of American Poets)

As a tactile interfacer / experiencer / learner (yes, I’m aware this sounds a little peculiar), I have a heightened awareness of texture. Not by choice; by default. As far back as I can remember (ie. childhood memories, dreams, and even nightmares), texture sensitivity has been a dominant element of my perception and connection with my environs.

So the words of this heretofore unfamiliar poet instantly resonated with me. I pretend no clarity or certainty around their intent, but thinking via touching makes sense to me.

I’m rarely aware I’m doing it until Susan brings it to my attention, but my fingers find changes in texture. Creases and grooves, folds and furrows attract my fingertips like magnets. Am I anxious? Is there some sort of consolation in feeling seams, joints, wrinkles? I have no idea. But at some level I too may experience solace in thinking with my fingertips.

I return to the poem, to the notion of tactile thought, with an appealing twist to the poem’s latter half (or so) that still challenges me after many rereadings, yet still appeals to me, perhaps even reassures me despite my uncertainty.

It’s a relief 
to think with the hands…

[…]

Soon is what  
she thinks with. What she runs  
the edge of her thumb, her index finger over.  

— Bradley Trumpfheller, “Loom” (Source: Academy of American Poets)

For me, Trumpfheller’s poem ends prematurely. On purpose, I suspect. As if abbreviated mid thought, as if a final line or two might stitch it all up tidily later on, like mending a pair of pants or a shirt where the threads have frayed and fallen out of contact with one another. Like a straightaway with a curvy journey ahead.

Sometimes the universe rhymes. This poem. This photograph. This moment. On the verge…