At the point X
the point of ignition,
the point where one tick
of the clock
joins with another,
the point where the scratch of the match
bursts into flame--

that is where I begin,
where I open my hand
to the reader
& shake out my cuffs,
where I show my magician's hat
& swear on my life
it is empty.

At the moment of impact,
at blast-off plus one,
my acetylene pencil
is searing my name
on the backs of my lovers,
my fountain pen breaks into blossom . . .
The paper is pooling with rain.

At the stroke of lightning--
when Toledo appears as a gleam
in El Greco's eye--

at the clap of thunder--
when Beethoven goes deaf
& invents the ear--

I am trying to learn
to begin to begin to begin.

© Erica Mann Jong

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