Once she saw in a museum, a table wide as the lap
of a fallen tree. Each ring bore the names of generation
upon generation: imagine great-great-great-granddaughters
and -sons peering down from their balconies or standing
in a little gust of wind at the edge of the shore, waving
at a pretty figure so far away in the distance. My kin,
my kin, do you not know me? Here I am
. This is a lie of course,
a fabrication; which is not to say there aren’t some parts
that are true. Those are the places that are pitted
and notched, graved where lightning seared new words
into the wood. She takes a little silk, a little citrus
oil. Surfaces can shine, but never darker than the wound.
If you cup her head in your hand just so, if you circle
her waist with your arm, the sleeplessness is bearable.


In response to Via Negativa: Pretty.

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