Tuesday poem #607 : Jillian Clasky : Vanishing Points

 

 

Only once in my life
have I woken

in a state of sleep paralysis.
I opened my eyes

to the sight of myself
on a perch at the foot

of my bed, her neck
bent down

in shadow, her eyes
white stones, her teeth

a string of gleaming slats
in space: this me

who was not me,
a mirror warped

and ossified. I tried
to lift a hand and wave,

could not move
my arm. And still,

as if she’d read my mind,
she waved back.

 

 

 

Jillian Clasky is a poet and fiction writer from Toronto. Her work has appeared in journals such as PRISM international, Room, and flo., and she was shortlisted for the 2023 CBC Poetry Prize. She recently graduated from the University of Ottawa, where she cofounded and served as editor-in-chief of Common House Magazine.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan