In Which the You is Consistent, but not Static and Nothing is Limited by History

History is fluid. The past is unbreachable
but not set. I cannot alter it,
but it can be altered. The subject hides itself, or
the subject is hidden. X can alter the past.
X alters the past. I am only

tracking changes, the way seismologists
hide instruments along the shore, record every shiver
the earth makes, whether you
feel it or not. I’ve pressed
my ear to your front yard. I am not afraid

of your residuals. I am fluid
the same way time is fluid—and I can
alter me, to an extent.
There is a limit. There are always
limits—but I have learned my limits.

I have learned some of my limits. I even
know how to use limits to my advantage.
I am the agent of my own fluidity
— to an extent—and I am not yet napping
in the shadow of your house.

I have heard all I need to hear
but I will need to hear more. I place my palms
on the window glass. I let the glass take
my warmth. This is how
you change something: you see.

If a crystal grows in a nearly lightless cave and nobody sees it, does it still refract?

According to my memory
sound is created when energy disturbs the air into vibrations;
is created, sure, and can be heard,
but is not contingent on being heard. A possibility

of recognition. Still, a sound is only so because it is named
a sound, and a sound unheard
has no possibility of being, will
not be, named.

So no, the falling tree
doesn’t make a sound. Of course
the falling tree makes a sound. The point
is an exercise in observation. How seeing changes

anything. How meaning
disturbed is meaning altered. Every time you recall
me, I am different. Here, I am endlessly singing,
my voice carrying

over the sound of your hammer, as I crawl under the trailer
looking for kittens. But,
I never did
crawl under the trailer in search

of anything—it was
Esther, in her sturdy blue jeans and lopsided
pigtails she did up herself.
I only, and so often,

peered into the darkness, wary of cobwebs
(which could
coat my bare arms) and anything
that cobwebs imply.

How you are dis-becoming

Perhaps this is my inheritance. I was
destined to squat at the lip of the cave.
Was, of course; I’m no longer squatting.

I’ve shimmied in on forearms. I won’t build
this (a history) into anything
or tear it apart. My only

object is to know—and I don’t even want
to know it all. I’m looking for enough.
I will burry my arms

in snake-dens, if that’s what it takes. I’m sure
that’s what it takes. And while you watched, or didn’t,
I became someone’s eyes

so I will become someone’s
mouth. I never stop becoming.
I rail against my sedimenting.

I am railed against. I persist tender, so
I must take care. If anything, know this: I am not
afraid of you or your residuals. I think time is my friend

I think
it will show me how it changes.
I am learning how to change myself.

I am showing you
whether or not you will listen. I must see, and because
I see, I must tell.

Hans Kesling is a poet, ghost writer, and sometimes instructor living in Portland, Oregon with their spouse and two cats. They earned their BA in English with a focus in creative writing from Lewis & Clark College in 2013 and their MFA in creative writing with a focus in poetry from Indiana University in 2019. You can find their work in Arkana, the Same, T(OUR) Magazine, Gobshite Quarterly, and Oregon Poetic Voices. Follow them on twitter @hanslovehandles, or on instagram @lostprinceofmethlehem.