Memory sifted through their hands
Like water
Or like sand—
The kind of sand that lays flat
On desert ground
And all around the blistered feet
Of those who stand and watch the sun
With faces red
And cracking under heat
Filtered through dust—
Or like water.
Like water
In trickles
Between fingers pruning with excess
Trying to keep it there
Sickeningly aware
Of the weakness in the spaces
Between their fingers
And their hands—
Their memories fell right through
Splashed around their ankles
In a shallow pool
Reflecting upward
Not what was held
But what remained.
Recollections darkened
Not gone—
But changed
Into purples and blues
Certain as midnight
Uncertain as morning.
The light from those days
Did not disappear
It bent
Casting shadows
From the figures they had formed
In the mind—
Standing still
Even as everything else moved.
Not that they lied,
They simply could not see
That the laughter of then
Would return differently
That what once rang out
Clear and effortless
Would come back softened
Carrying weight
They had not yet learned to name.
They heard the voices
Of those they knew
From long ago days
When laughter was simple
Easy as something rolling
Downward
Without resistance—
Smooth in the hand
Bright in the light
Held up and turned
Until color revealed itself
And then slipped away again.
Recollections continued
Not fixed
Not held—
But moving
Across the surface of them
As water does
As sand does
Shifting
Settling
Lifting
And falling
Without asking permission.
Their memories were old
But inside them
Something remained
Not unchanged—
But present.
A trace
A tone
A warmth
That did not belong
Only to the past
But to the shape
Of what they had become.
Memory sifted through their hands
And still
Something stayed—
Not in the grasp
But in the holding
They could no longer see.
Recollections whispered
The passing time—
Not hurried
Not still—
Simple as a falling grain
Intricate as the path it takes.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Transformation
Poem: Subsequent Kingdom
The hour came
When she no longer knew
Where to stand and so
She sat
In the middle of a ground
Hollowed of movement
And sound.
Wrapped her arms around
The tops of her knees,
Squeezed and held
Herself in a balance
That felt like a trance.
Faded memories danced,
Then turned into smoke,
Lifted up
And away—
Transformed day into
Night,
Where what was bright
Had taken flight.
There was no way
To know for sure
Where her plight would
Take her
Or send her next
But to a dream—
So she slept and found
That nightmares abound,
But dreams are the things
Worth stepping into.
And so
She slept
And she stepped.
She entered—
Her feet soaked in regret,
A substance heavier than she knew.
Underfoot,
Leaves crunching,
Small souls darting,
Dripping mysteries and dew.
She stood in a hidden forest
Where light was shattered
By shadow—
The sun trickling
Down tree trunks
Until devoured by shade.
In this place—
Where light and dark collide—
Life breathed
Without fear of
Being censured
Or scrutinized.
Her hands trembled,
Adding vibration to the breeze
Shaken loose from unseen clouds,
Wrapping around her skin
And seeping past
Petrified courage within.
Location undisclosed—
To she and he and me.
Lost inside—
No fear of being unfound,
No regret of being drowned
Between the monotony there
And this rising cacophony of sound—
Increasing swells surrounding,
Like a riptide racing outward,
Tearing her loose from security,
Crowning her
With confounding obscurity.
A subsequent Queen
Bowed low—
In coronation,
Surrendered to unpredictability,
Relinquished proposals
And control.
Her scepter raised,
Exposing the cavity
Of beating heart and soul,
Warring against
Encroaching enemies
Threatening to bring her low.
She breathed.
She sighed.
She caught the eyes
Of a creature drawing near.
In him—a revelation
She held dear,
Yet sensed she should not go near.
Stuck
Between stimulus
And choice—
As thick as tangled underbrush below,
As wide as these grounds
She did not know—
She stood still.
A stabbing thrill
Entered her side,
Some kind of alive
Breaching the tenderness
Of the space
Where her secrets hide.
She lowered her scepter,
Compelled to disavow
The tenacity of her presence here—
In a place
Perhaps she should fear.
There he stood,
Quite near.
Treading upon this undisclosed ground
Gave air to her footsteps,
And she, like a child,
Laid her focus
At the feet of he
And of mysteries
Surrounding her there—
She worshiped at the altar
Of her long-forgotten
Sense of wonder.
Unexpected places.
Unimagined faces.
Unforeseen encounters
Reminded her that life
Is an unpredictable force—
Impossible to bridle
By will alone.
“Let it be,”
Said she—
With an indignant air
Of possibility,
A heaviness in her lungs
Making it difficult to breathe—
Yet she breathed,
And she sighed,
And she moved into his realm,
Stuck her fingers in,
And pried him open—
Revealing his positives
To her negatives.
A Pandora’s Box
Of magnetism—
Cataclysmic exposure,
Volcanic disclosure—
Blasted through their chests
And up through
The tops of the trees.
A burst of what was unseen
Careened,
Trading winds
With all that was seen—
A hurricane of chemistry,
Unforeseen,
Destroying the routine
Like a machine
Come to life
With a sharpened pulse.
She realized too late
That being crowned
In her dream
Unbound her stream
Of waking consciousness—
Stuck now inside her sleep,
Between worlds,
Stewing in a concoction
Of waking memory
And present dream.
She remembered when
She had a choice—
When she sat
With her arms wrapped
Around her knees,
A breeze of normalcy
Blowing across
Tear-stained cheeks:
“The tears I knew
Were softer
Than these torrents
Where light and dark
Steal what was—
What is—
And twist the present
With what they undo.”
The hour returned.
She no longer knew
Where the path of her then
Met the path of her now.
So she sat with her crown,
Awaiting sundown—
Her sleeping life
Mingling within
Her subsequent kingdom.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, updated 2026
Poem: Unassembled
This painting by Ruprecht von Kaufmann fascinates me. It leaves the impression that the human figure has been disassembled and placed back into the room without its center.
Rolling thunder—
Sounds like rattling bones
In a makeshift
Barrel
Traveling over uneven bricks—
Coursing through the sky
Varied gradations of height
First loosening the moon
With percussive vibration
Then shaking
Newly budding leaves
Velvet green
From yawning trees
Barely awake.
Scattered light—
Looks like fingers
Flicking away all that flies
Stretching across and
Opening wide
Then curling back inside
A fist pulsating
Currents through the air
Bringing light to where
Shadows live
But only one
Moment at a time
Slowly and
Without warning.
Water pouring—
Tastes like a child’s tears
Hot and heavy
Filled with reflections
Of all that surrounds
But void of understanding,
Simple
Pure
Enveloping the landscape
In a pool of
White
A mirror to the sky
With no pondering of why
Only what.
As above the tempest
So below
The raging gusts of natural disaster
If love be called natural,
If the heart enrapt
In upward gales
And stripped from its
Cavity
Be called disaster—
Stripped, that is,
By freshly painted
Nails of red
Tossed and then released
Into the atmosphere.
And then, stillness invades—
Feels like bated breath
Unwilling to climb
Rungs of the rib cage
Or slip past the tongue
Of one whose
Voice must not be known
Hidden in silence—
No more masking
Than that—
Only quiet
Enshrouding some figure
Crawling past and almost
Out of sight.
Inside the stillness he sits
Shoulders slumped and heavy
Something feels different
(Reality varied)
An inventory begins—
He lifts his hand
To count all his parts
First his legs, yes
Then confirming his arms,
All accounted, yet
Discerning something amiss
His eyes move and
Focus inside
Where the hole was dug.
“My heart,” he panicked
“I am sure this is the space
where once it sat.”
Groping further down
Through his mouth
As though, perhaps
It slid
Descending
Sloshing now in acid—
His fingers reaching
He gags and chokes
Hoping to find it
Inside the vomit
But still he is without.
Coalescence deprived
Nothing more to bind
His pieces together
Like glue or like chains
Wrapping around
And pulling down
To anchor—
Now adrift on the sea
Of humanity
Only he
And his leftover parts
No longer a whole
He floats atop the foam
Like a corpse.
There is a thing that happens
In the mind
Between loss
And understanding—
A vacuum
An unhanding
Of reason
Disillusionment invades
It cascades
And splashes into pools
Of paralysis
Then sinks into rebellion
Before it hits the bottom of
Despondent and
Swirls with caustic deviation.
“Parts for sale,”
He spouts like a madman
From sunrise until
Dusk sits like a spy
On the edge of the moon
Waiting for its chance to fall—
“Pieces for sale,
gently used
never abused
no longer needed
the price is low
everything must go
no credit
only cash.”
The people pass
They point but do not laugh
Sympathy cloaks their eyes
They try to disguise the sadness
And yet,
“I see it there,” he scoffs—
“Do not pity
I have no heart
through which
to feel the pain,
sometimes in life this happens
there is no shame.”
He chops—
“Here, have a leg.”
Then, one passes close
Carrying a bag
Filled with hope.
The sitting man
Raises his hand to ask,
“Soon I will be dead
my last drops bled
with no chance
to renew.
My heart, you see,
was taken from me
and I wonder if
hope can be fastened
to one with no pulse?”
His hurried steps
Do not delay
From the corner of his mouth
He sighs to say,
“I have my heart
inside this bag
with some hope besides
but I tell you true
unless it beats,
an endless repeat,
there is nothing
this spark can do
for you.”
The passing man passes.
The sitting man
Beholds one flicker of hope
Flaming on the ground
He imagines hobbling toward
Leaping forward
But instead
He watches it burn—
Yellow to dark
And then
One line of smoke
Stretches, back curled
Like a cat
Being lifted from the center.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Photo credit: My dear friend and German artist Ruprecht von Kaufmann, Die Sache mit den Sirenen 2014.
Poem: Drenched
Once I was told that Hope
Is the sky filled with sunshine
That it spreads like light,
Floats like a helium filled balloon,
Dances like the tail of a kite.
I wondered at this metaphor
Sprawling amidst the wind
Like a howling current
Vibrating on the wings of
Birds that flap before they soar.
Can Hope be so far
Above my head
Where only flying things
Rise to tread
And I on the ground
Watching
Awaiting release
Of a treasure trove
Unlatched and
Spilling down?
What if Hope is more like rain—
A simile easier to attain—
It does not gently lie atop
The atmosphere but
Is conjured inside storms
Like a witch’s brew
Bubbling through with contents
Thrown into a fiery caldron
Until that time when
The pressure built, releases.
Storm-soaked orbs floating down
Subject to the whims of
Gusts above and around
Hollow of motivation
Innocent as they fall to the ground.
And we, in soggy shoes,
Choose to stay
In the rain
Marinate
Let it penetrate
All the way through—
Some people run for cover
But not us
Not the dreamers
Or the lovers
Or the ones who understand
That the storms
Force the hands
Of Hope and of those
Stubborn in their wills
To see the brightness
Ahead—
Withstanding
Steeping
In watery expectation.
My friend,
If they tell you
Hope is the sun
Smile, nod and
Move along
With squeaky shoes
Leaving tracks
On the ground
To be found by those
Who seek the courage to drown.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Jill Szoo Wilson 