This (.) is a dot
For me, it’s the beginning of something
Or the beginning of all
For others is the closure of another thing
The beginning of the fall
But for you, it may be just a dot
Or the concept you carry throughout your life
About a dot
Regardless, this (.), it is still a dot
Unless it decides not to be anymore
Unless it decides to become a line
To call itself a line
Or a circle
And it can be all elliptical
Or like the planet that decided
Not to be anymore, that became a dwarf
And ebbed in sense and then grew back again
Because the collective wouldn’t bother to adapt
— Or would it?
It can change the imagery
But it will be always a dot
— Now with an untunement on the hologram —
And many other meanings or grammar changes
But on the primary image of a dot
Is the dot there
Or is it just my idea
Of how a dot should feel?
If someone hadn’t said it is a dot
Would the dot ever be?
I don’t know, maybe it is a question for God
But if the idea of the dot is what makes the dot true
Is there a God or is it just our nous?
Is there a dot indeed or is it just our view?
On The Microcosm Reflection
Right after the pandemic broke down upon the face of the deep, the Earth and so on,
I was talking to my friend — who I nicknamed Blu
Because a song with the word blue happened to be playing when, ironically,
I was in my best mood — about how we caused the apocalypse
(Atypically, I was reading Gerard Way’s comic book series The Umbrella Academy,
Expecting to understand better the TV Series).
I’m not going to specify why we thought that
Because it’s a painful memory to the two of us
But the reason behind the reasoning is that I
Truly believe the Microcosm reflects,
As the Macro reflects,
And everything reflects.
Such a delightful word, reflection.
I can’t say for Blu, but I
Like to believe our actions result
In a change on the collective
For the good or for the bad
(That gives me a reason not to yell at people doing stupid stuff).
Perhaps the apocalypse started because a butterfly failed to beat her wings
In the way her collective demands her to;
Perhaps it started because I should have called my friend Violet instead of Blu;
Perhaps it started because I keep stopping my reasoning to add random information when I’m immediate:
Aizuchi etiquette to my own thoughts.
The reason this conversation started after all
Is even more unreasonable than my reasoning for the global chaos.
It had to do with some (almost) famous guy
That had shown interest in my artistic work
And I couldn’t meet him even if he asked me to
Because the airports had been mostly closed
And he was in London.
‘He’s in London!’
That phrase started everything
And the nonsense apocalypse talk
I told you, it reflects — back to the beginning.
ABOUT THE POET
Adora Williams is graduated in Journalism and Languages and has written poetry for 14 years. She lives in a historic region of Brazil. Her poetry anthology in Portuguese is being published in Brazil and Portugal in December 2022.