Hélène Cixous pointed out, “Who hasn’t accused herself of being a monster?”
you put the bag on your head
I put the bag on my head
you wear spectacles designed for two people
I wore an assortment of masks
there is poetry in a matchbox
small hinged forms, this way and that
a woven mesh over my head
a clear animal presses up against my face
there is something here to do with touch and balance
caught between a point-of-view and a pile of rocks
you dreamed of this road
I dreamed of watching you turn the bend
disappearing and not disappearing
somewhere you are holding this piece of paper
you’re raising your eyes, the up of it pulling you through
just think of how a mountain would show feelings
the green light like a whisper, a rope
there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty
you stop and listen to the sky-white clouds
ink-lit sky