[Aleph]

א

This page once was blank, once was pulp,

once was tree. Someone dips a pen

in the inkwell and the letter appears.

                                   Pictograph of an eye,

a skull, which should be bleached white

but now is black. Its curved horns point

the way to the Pacific cliffs toward the sea.

What has a beginning must have an end,

            you’d think. Draw a line

from here across the ocean—it would stop

at the isle of the dead. Shapes slink toward us

through a pinkish, clinging fog. A silent letter

begins our names, unpronounceable

but for a glottal grunt. I tell you the ancient

stories—Jonathan and David, Achilles and Patroclus.

Men like us have always been here. If you separate

the right glyph from the left, if you

                                    deconstruct the letter,

the world almost ends. Once this page was blank

but now is not. Text me a photo of your left hand,

                                    my gold band

circling your finger with half of infinity’s ring.