Dynamic Equivalent



It is amazing to me that sometimes people who speak the same language have a hard time communicating to each other, almost as if they need a translator. How much more so will it be when we communicate with our future..."Creations"?

Dynamic Equivalent

Travis Jackson


In a salt plain

surrounded by rust-skinned wurms,

sits a woman, pregnant for a thousand years.

Not aging past the tenth month,

mother and child immortal, tired.


The mother-never-to-be

grabs her belly, feels pain,

ready to give birth!

But a watchful shadow passes over,

holding back the baby's arrival.


It has done so

since the cities fell,

since the sun turned red,

since the mountains caved in

and the black waters spread.


The woman sings, thinking

of the child she'll never hold,

the son she wont see grow,

ignoring the whines of the shadow,

the whispers of calamity incarnate.


It has kept her alive,

along with others,

women whose motherhood

they can never grasp,

a motherhood trapped inside.


It wont let children again

walk the earth, scream, or play.

It wont let the next generation

replace the old, the old that

spawned it, made it arrive.


The wurms groan, their skin shrieking,

the clouds ever-green shed red hot rain

as blue as the pacific.

The pregnant woman laughs, slightly mad,

slightly vengeful, not knowing what to think.


The shadow, the dark gust,

the cloud of curiosity

tries to decide her thoughts,

to decide their will,

to become both king and lord.


But a king needs a crown,

definitely a translation,

an inheritance, a legacy,

a gift to tomorrow,

most of all...an heir.


Of these, it has

no concept,

no law.

Nothing of the former world

it destroyed makes sense,


Save for the obscure moon,

sinister, sacrilegious,

always haunting its mind,

darkening its nightly journeys,

its walk among inquisitive dreams.


That it knows,

that it understands,

and it tries to convey

what the moon represents

to his perpetual pregnant princesses.


But they cant understand,

anymore than the now extinct flower

understood the bee that gathered from it,

or the little girl that picked it.

Between the women and the shadow, no translation!


No translation,

other than endless time,

endless kicks,

endless weight,

endless, endless...


But the women of the world

close their eyes,

ignoring the unfulfilled

biological prophecy,

ignoring their phantom keeper,


They take breath in,

slowly, savoring the sweet

southern wind,

savoring the ion smell,

the smell of a distant beach.


They meditate, communicating

with their children, their hearts,

speaking in code that the shadow

cannot understand,

speaking without need...of translation.


The women of the world

grab their bellies, feel pain,

ready to give birth!

But their watchful shadow passes over,

holding back tomorrow's arrival.



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