Looking Into The Iris
A black hole looks back
with such emptiness,
I can see my face.
This coin purse holds space
so well, I never see stars fall
off the curved sides.
One-hundred eighty degree vision,
I can move from side to side.
I see you at the outcrop
of far-left and Impressionism.
Not Monét, exactly, or Renoir--
not the bathers, robust in their cheekiness,
not the lilies, profuse as brush strokes
in a blue garden,
rather, the way I don't see you at first, and then
the way everything blurs.
I refuse to see your slow walk to the refrigerator,
the way you pull that cover closer around
you each time.
How often do I hear us say,
How ya' feelin?
We go no further to define
what our bodies do to us--
incrementally slow and kind.
© Teresa White 2002
More Poetry:
The Moon / The Blue Heron
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Bio: Born and raised in Seattle, Teresa now lives in eastern Washington with her husband. During the past
three years, she has had over 150 poems published online and in print including: The Best of Melic
anthology, Grasslimb, Rattle, Snow Monkey, Blue Moon Review, Poet's Canvas, Octavo, Eclectica, In Posse
Review, Eye Dialect, Stirring and Artemis. She was nominated for a Pushcart in 1999 by the Melic Review. |
