If solitude left chatter marks, glacial signs that speak—;
If solitude were desert silence, a keep—;
If solitude bloomed late, dogwood pink in August—;
If solitude asked you a question, knowing full well you had no answer—;
If solitude had colors like the paint chart at Ace Hardware—;
If you wore solitude on your sleeve, a red badge or a silver star—;
If solitude buried in your marrow, the bone of you, what then?
If solitude had eyes that could see though substance—;
If solitude were simple, one plus one equals two—;
If solitude sang arias in jazz—;
If solitude could thin grumbles within your heart—;
If solitude had a friend, who would she be?
If you solitude were like water in the desert—;
If you could wear solitude like a fine dress of shot silk—;
If solitude were a soft animal that you pull out of your heart—;
If solitude were absence carrying—;
If solitude had sharp talons—;
If solitude were the fuller’s fire or rain on the fleece of a lamb—;
If solitude were metallic flurries pocking your face—;
If solitude were a shivery garment and chalk-mouth—;
If solitude were a tidal wound—;
If solitude had rungs like Jacob’s ladder and angels tarrying—;
If solitude were a lung stitch, a trace-script—;
If solitude were a stammering, saying STAY, please—;
If solitude were need-song in practice—;
If solitude were glacial milk shimmering at sunset—;
If solitude were whales barking raves out of our hearing—;
If solitude were barbed wire keeping the wolves out—
If solitude were half-light, halved yet again and spun—;
If solitude were a star that fell in upon itself, a black hole pulling all the light inside—;
If solitude were fireflies, lit, then unlit—;
If solitude were a flowering wick, heavy with bloom and ash, terrestrial—;
If solitude were an evening word spoken between friends—;
If solitude were a strange taking, sand in the mouth—;
If solitude were the north wind keeping watch—;
If solitude were inscribed like brain mantles—;
If solitude were mother-flower of good will—;
If solitude were she who sang sigh no more, ladies sigh no more—;
If solitude were a form of stammering and syllabic fracture—;
If solitude were sewing in which we let out our seams—;
If solitude were honeycomb, cure for muteness—;
If solitude were a coat of many colors; worn wrongly, it makes wreckage—;
If solitude were the door we open and listen for Who comes—;
If solitude were a kind of overtaking, a rush of redness at sunset—;
If solitude were an illumination that sprawls within the soul—;
If solitude were a hieroglyphics of quiet—;
If solitude were a taste of resurrection, CONTINUALLY—/ at the meridian—;
If solitude were quicksand, God’s lure, God’s trick, God’s grappling;
then, the wounded hip—;
I did not know prayer could be so bloody—
Note: “Continually—/ at the meridian—“ Emily Dickinson 611.