What Is Not

My twisted alibi, the silent who
and almighty why

or misplaced where. Or what
as in what went wrong

and when. What is not
turned sideways or backwards?

A lifeless rut, a knot,
in my most likely never

and all for naught,
not knowing if I aced the test.

Notwithstanding,
it kneels to reason

if not is the godless spot
of who I am. I forgot.

Copyright © 2021 by Arthur Solway. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 13, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.

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“I have returned to this poem over many years for its mystery, and how the pleasure or power of wordplay can lead to mysterious discoveries. That zone of not knowing or not wanting to know. By taking the familiar or fundamental rules of journalism, the poem moves towards something almost prayer-like or a kind of spiritual epiphany.”
—Arthur Solway