Aspens, a trembling curtain shimmering beyond the kitchen
window, between my dishes and the precise house
next door – I am whaching (oh Emily, oh Anne –
This sleight of truth is not a trick
of light; patches glinting
in the mirror, not reflection –
the insides peek out.
At my temple.
Around my eyes. Also my armpits and groin.
I am fading, vaguely,
at the edges of my mouth -- words blanche, pale,
unformed and unvoiced.
The truth places, paces there
as if it must – must -- show me
the trembling inside.
I am shimmering imperceptibly
Into an aspen creature at the edge of –
Truth? – This border
changed, barely, visible. It has a name – I am not
unnamed, only shedding pigment,
baring discoveries and nerves. Am I (over) exposed?
A photograph, captured. These parts
where courage failed or grew or became
less – if only in certain (uncertain) light. Paling,
I tilt my head to see.
Carte Blanche, Soliloquies and Yalla!, and as an above/ground press broadside.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan