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On Seeing, a poem, written after listening to Krista's interview with Elizabeth Alexander.

On Seeing

the unflinching eye I am
afraid, awed.
Come close, peer
into what depths, dark
or full of color, depths
that rile, fester, balloon
with joy:

the aged hand, the bugling
belly, the lingering smile
quickly leaving, at the window
a touch of frost.

The eye of vigilance,
of brave quaking
notes in mid-strike
what it wants
to forget, what it will
not forget.

Each stolen moment—

the map tree branches etch
on fog
peas frozen in their traces
dried blood on
her lips
the newborn’s warm—

is a thing that was
but was not the same
having been seen.