8. string theory
if ever you feel untethered, it’s nice to remember that, in fact,
tied to your figure are a wondrous number of invisible strings.
some strings wilt, others are drum-tight & they all
trail off to a wondrous number of destinations.
the thing about strings: they’re designed not to be seen.
you might liken them to spiderweb, or thinly spun wool.
the next thing about strings: they’re busiest while you sleep,
in order, of course, to converse with your spirit.
consider this evidence: you receive a text at three in the morning
from somebody you long ago learnt to unknow,
who snapped a trusting corner from you,
kept it & the text says they thought of you.
the house is still, your phone doesn’t light or ding,
but awake you leap, like colossal tectonic plates are shifting.
of course, they yanked their end of the string. which doesn’t mean
anything should be otherwise, the opposite:
it’s a glittering example of the shapes intimacy takes,
the incredible connectivity of touching only the string.
secondary evidence: that persistent dream, where a whole day
slipped past & you forgot to take your little dog outside,
but you can’t open the door & there you are, trapped together,
is a string. because his ashes rest in your bedside drawer,
which isn’t where he is, clearly. he’s occupied
elsewhere, gnawing on his indestructible leash.
oh, string things happen while you wake,
though mostly you hurl through time too fast to feel them.
but anybody on earth closing their eyes at the same time to the
same skull-thudding beat is tethered to you by string.
anybody on earth at the same time holding a palm to
their moist cheek: invisible string. anybody at any time
craving a cigarette when you do, every body in any crowd
you chant in, dance in, every body in every yoga class you’ve
pressed a prayer to your chest in, every kiss you’ve given
& received willingly, butterfly or otherwise, any light
flickering when you step under it, any number
haunting you repeatedly: string, string & lastly, string.
another thing about strings: they transcend time & place, securing you
to futures that have passed & rocketing off to parallel planets.
there’s one double-knotted on the wooden spoon in the pot, attached to
your father’s stirring hand, attached to your father, who smells of mint & sweet tea,
who sings to your mother, which is a string, who watches you watch them both
from your spot hanging over the sofa, which is a heaven that’s been.
of course, there is still the string binding you to your mother’s womb,
& her string to her mother’s womb & so on it goes, burrowing into rich dirt
& there are strings gripped in the fists of many living women blown
to faraway cities. these strings run along the seafloor of swirling oceans,
passing whispers like crushed notes in bottles. i chose you & i’d do it again, too.
in any life, i’ll catch your eye across any room & say: oh thank god, it’s you.
strings like these glimmer & pulse & if you listen close,
tinkling like a wind chime is the symphony of their laughter.
some strings are ugly, dragging you back to every earnest word you swallowed,
times you showed all your cards at once, turned the wrong stone.
unfortunately, many more corners of your spirit are chipped & littered
under sofas, collecting ash outside bars, in the river bobbing up, caught
in the barb of hopped fences & on rooftops & in crumbling bomb shelters.
chained there eternally, lonely without your body. still beating, still tugging.
remember, however, an infinite number of strings pull you towards an infinite
number of people yet to be met, napes to rest your hand, open land.
one ends at you as your mother, figure worn softer, she plants a wattle
in the yard & though you drift towards her, there’s no saying if she’s certain.
because, this is the theory’s sharpest part: strings lead to
a tremendous number of realities that never get to happen.
in the tangle, there’s one string with which you must
take great care. the end’s been swallowed,
ending at a wren-like girl perched cross-legged
in the warm nook behind your ribs.
downy feathers still frame her wide eyes
& she plucks her string like a harp, asking to be seen.
or perhaps she’s been the string keeper all along.
the weaver, spider, protector, the spinner of the spool of thread.
after all, every particle of light & matter on earth
is comprised of miniscule, vibrating strings. after all,
when you forget your umbrella & turn your chin to the sun shower
& smile shyly at a stranger & cross the street & manage not to get run over
& drop your phone & it doesn’t shatter & on a whim you try a slice of
chocolate cake & think, perhaps today you’ll run south down the river,
simply means someplace on your body
there tugs a string you can’t see
& it’s busily knitting you
into the web of things.
Lily Woodberry is a poet on unceded Wurundjeri land. She studies writing, writes for a living and unwinds after a long day by writing a bit more. She believes everything connects and loops back to the beginning, and that making art weaves a very important string. You can read more of her poetry in presses like Jacaranda, Demure and Farrago, or find her on the web at @lily__loveletters.