David Carlson
Sri Lanka
On this tear-shaped island, I tied a knot
that will not come undone. Today I chose
renunciation. Gone to meditate
on a mountaintop retreat with a polyglot
monk, my companions watched me hesitate,
and let me go. I was afraid of not
returning. It is so hot in Mirissa,
the hotel beach empty as old skin.
I crack sugar apples and mangosteens
on the table, taste lamprais on my hands
mixed with the juice. I push through the blind
waves until the sand drops away, then float,
pitching on rifts in the thickening dark,
telling myself that these are not my stars.
“This poem engages with the idea of truth in an oblique way. If one were to pull the term “truing” out of its typical context, in woodworking, it might be used express the idea of bringing something into the shape, form, or alignment needed for it to be right both with itself and with the world around it. In some sense, “Sri Lanka” is about that work of “truing.” It is an autobiographical poem, partially “true” (in a factual sense), but most definitely a truthful expression of some of the metaphysical desires, and fears, that I carried around with myself at a certain point in my life, and perhaps still do.”