sonder.
A book of poems by Annika Sayrs
i. it begins.
i was a head inside a glass jar,
heavy on my shoulders.
a curious child was staring in at me
like i was a fish at an aquarium.
i felt heavy.
did it hurt?
It’s cold. i sniffled,
sending a gallon of water into
my lungs.
It burned, i didn’t choke.
The child outside looked scared.
i tried to cover my face.
The child screamed a muffled scream.
they ran away.
My shoulders pulsed with pain.
the water from my lungs spilled out,
i ran out of air.
i inhaled again, I couldn’t breathe.
that didn’t scare me.
i tried to find the child to apologize.
They were crying.
i pushed the water out again.
i’m drowning.
ii. watching.
do you think moths realize
the light burns?
I don’t think they know
it hurts.
It’s manmade.
i’ve never seen a moth fly toward
the sun.
perhaps they’ve never seen her,
as they sleep in the mornings.
maybe they have, but
she warned them not to come too close.
maybe the clouds always blocked her from view.
i wonder why lightbulbs don’t come with
a warning.
iii. fall.
he came to me crying again.
that sobbing cry, that shaking cry, that
persistent wail.
i’m no mother.
he was walking on shards of sea glass,
beautiful sunset orange and peach,
chartreuse and pomegranate pink.
i read him.
secured in my boat, the gentle waves
lapping against the wooden boards.
he stood on the shore, his
feet bleeding while crimson sand stuck to
his wounds.
I got out of the boat,
stepped onto the shards,
dropping to my knees as i inspected his feet.
i took water from the canteen
around my neck
then splashed the water out of the cuts.
I got up,
his wounds freshly cleaned.
he stepped off the glass onto
soft ground behind him.
I got back into my boat,
sat down on one of the padded seats.
I propped my legs on the lip,
the scars already forming.
one looked like my canteen.
iv. ace.
anni
a familiar voice chimed,
a dead crunch and crackle like a platter to the words.
can you get your cards?
sure, i said.
i grabbed them, alive
in my hands.
she pointed to one as
i laid them out before her,
that’s my mom, she says. that’s her.
she picks it up.
is it time?
she sniffs through a “thank you”.
i gather up my things,
a perfect imitation of our
stiff grasp on melancholy beliefs.
v. gifted
a vibrant red tablecloth
with golden frills atop
a perfectly clear table.
candles were lit,
grandma, great aunt, great uncle flickering.
the air was stiff,
hung stagnant over us.
i exhaled
the air i had caught in my chest,
deflating, shakily
preparing to speak again.
my hands covered my mouth as
i spoke, muffled.
they need me. i don’t care how much
it hurts.
i stifled a sob.
such a gentle soul.
yes, yes she is.
vi. ricochet.
you’ve done nothing to help me
he screams at her.
she’s shaking
violently
a grey screen draped over her
sending her into
a monochrome world.
he walks up the stairs.
i go downstairs after her.
i heard everything, i say.
he shouldn’t have said that.
it will be okay.
she yells at the sky,
pointing a finger at the sun.
she set much earlier that night.
vii. a performance.
i found myself on stage again.
i don’t like being on a pedestal,
it makes my thumbs hurt.
they’re yelling at me again.
i forgot to answer one.
they’re in a crowd, dressed in all kinds of ways.
i replied to the man in the hat,
i told him to journal.
did i answer the lady in red?
she stomps off as i get lost in thought.
a nice one, a boy in a purple plaid shirt,
is stopped by the security by my feet.
he falls to the floor.
i crouch over the side of the stage and
reach out my hand to him.
the crowd devours him before he can reach me.
they disperse after the sounds of
tearing cloth and hair end.
all i saw was a pile of bones.
i covered my mouth and gagged,
then ran backstage
viii. sick.
do you think she’ll ever thank me
for what i did for her?
i smiled
beautiful raindrops that smelt of
lemongrass and soft eucalyptus
dripping down my cheeks.
no, i said. it was silent.
she will learn that
the trees reach out for her
as she strolls the sidewalks.
they are not your hands.
ix. influence.
they sat me down today,
told me things
i didn’t know.
a rarity, it seems.
i’ve been through too much.
they told me with a sweetness
only comparable to
rich chocolate mousse.
you’ve helped me so much.
a thousand white lights hugged me
head to toe.
not much makes me stop in my tracks.
the mousse made me sick to my stomach.
x. it will continue.
a hand dips into lukewarm water.
perhaps the water is in a tub, or
a sink.
the fingers begin.
a new sensation,
slightly cold.
no shivers go down its wrist.
The hand hesitates, but continues,
the water still,
accepting.
the hand tries to reach for something.
there’s nothing in the water, it’s
an empty bowl.
the hand hangs limp into the pool,
then is drawn back.
i give it a towel.
Summary
This year, the universe seemed to be testing me. It was testing me on what I’ve learned, specifically. I’ve been reflecting a lot, and I came across a central theme of my life that has been both beneficial and detrimental, that has made me gain wisdom and fight back tears. I’ve come to learn that I cannot fix other people, despite my best efforts. They have to choose to fix themselves. This is a story of strength and perseverance. I titled this collection of poems “sonder”, as it seemed to be the perfect word that represented my sudden enlightenment towards others' problems compared to my own. Sonder is defined as “the profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passed in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it”. This feeling has come to me countless times, and I believe it’s finally time to put my experiences into words. Some recent, some far in the past, some to come in the future. Only time can tell.
Photo from YA Book Nook
