Ned Balbo

Marco Polo's Sleeve Unravels

split view with Nora Sturges's painting

This is where it begins: a single thread unravelling as you hike along the trail— Displaced world traveller startled by the sight of your denuded arm, you turn and wonder, What, or who, tugs at the other end? This is where it begins: a single thread, caught on a thorn, threatens your odyssey, or, snagged by bird or man, tests your resolve— a creature like these, perhaps?—white birds, ghost-birds who look on, half-amused, past time and tense. Memory fails; words, too. A single thread unravels time and space, twin revellers, travelling toward world’s end, who call, Turn back. Stop here, where the gazebo’s cupola, sun-struck behind a ravelin of stone, glares over river and ravine: one thread that, plucked, rings out, The way ahead’s too hard. Give up. But if you do retrace your steps, your sleeve sewn whole again, your gray beard black, then gone entirely, you’ll find that all ends where it starts: your birth, a single thread.   prev - 1.3 home - next