Kōan Anne Brink
Self-Portrait as Lake
If you drift,
if you drift further away,
if the lake drifts,
if the lake drifts further under
itself, if the drift turns
under itself, if I drift further
away from you, if I am capable
of drifting further away
from you, if the lake
decides to exit my body,
if the lake begins
to exit my body, if you
slowly exit my body, if
we exit in turns like dancers,
if the lake turns
slowly from blue to red,
if it slowly bleeds out
from our mutual body,
if the red bleeds into an open field,
if there is no water left
in the field, if there is no
safety in the open, no
trees to look forward to
with unblinking eyes,
if my life were just a film
by which I added
the occasioned dance,
if there was no real message
in the dance, if there was no
real human message, if humans
were no different than the lake,
if I had a feeling
in the end the pictures
they did not convey much,
the lake had nothing
to say, there was no particular
order to the pictures,
that in the end it takes a life
to drift and make order,
if I confessed
to having faith in the drift
itself and no particular
order, if I told you I believed
more in the going
than in the returning,
if I thought that people
don’t always return
from the lake,
would you still return,
would there be
the possibility
of you returning, would
I have spent a life tasting
each thing
and eating nothing.