On Seeing, a poem, written after listening to Krista's interview with Elizabeth Alexander.
Ofthe unflinching eye I amafraid, awed.Come close, peerinto what depths, darkor full of color, depthsthat rile, fester, balloonwith joy:
the aged hand, the buglingbelly, the lingering smilequickly leaving, at the windowa touch of frost.
The eye of vigilance,of brave quakingnotes in mid-strikewhat it wantsto forget, what it willnot forget.
Each stolen moment—
the map tree branches etchon fogpeas frozen in their tracesdried blood onher lipsthe newborn’s warm—
is a thing that wasbut was not the samehaving been seen.
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