Unknowing

by J.K. Hedges

 This morning the sadness of unknowing is upon me.
 I unknow everything I have known,
 and each thing in its turn as I touch or see it unknows me.
 I walk my house from room to room,
 my head a minor-key flute solo
 of lost and restless, airy notes of dolor.
 Sunlight streams through my blinds at an angle I've never seen,
 and paints my sofa a color it's never been.
 My kitchen floor squeals and squirms as it feels my feet
 and knows a stranger has come to eat.
 I'm paralyzed awhile and ache with apathy
 while my television spouts drivel without end, without origin.
 I touch myself and feel nothing, then recoil
 through the eerie emptiness of the ultimate act of unknowing.
 At last, wearied of unknowing,
 I climb into my bed and am chilled by its sheets.
 Silent sadness perches still upon my chest, and
 I reach for my worn and matted, grayed-white bear,
 who hugs my neck and warms my bony throat.
 My bear knows much of the sadness of unknowing.