like water in water —George Bataille
Eggs, transparent and sometimes red-veined as insect wings, might be hidden
in bark crevices
or a scatter of tawny leaves.
The distance between one gestation and the next, a pleat of the dress I wear
as if I could sew myself another.
Practiced, my tendon-reflex where the tunnel narrows its halo
into a noose. I trust
dexterity as a kind of nourishment, as I believe my own
To own, beauty is the first lie of it, and brief
thistles turning silver in sunrise as if for my eyes alone.
I see you surround me, mother, measuring what my exoskeleton
is thin. When the eye inside blinks, its bone-house splinters. No eye inside sky
but an insect
drone can cause the entire horizon, seasonal
which follows rain. No death
will stop measurement
spiraling out, a long ribbon of salt I must choose repeatedly to cross.
|Copyright © 2014 by Rusty Morrison. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on January 7, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.|