World
by Marilyn Gates
Since we can only be a person
for one second, I’m glad I chose myself
to end. I ended you, once. I closed
my eyes. I surrounded myself
inside with mirrors, noting
the uncertain greenness. There, you tilted.
Since, I’ve managed, though yet
to learn what to stand other than still.
Petty, I’ve tilted. Hours when the act
lagged the want and I was, yeah, alive.
So not apt
to resolve myself, I resolve myself:
In circularity, in anti
-grace, I quirk me into bliss. Gift.
Take. Sick isn’t fault but when my head
reaches its final innocence. What is violence
if not a botched miracle, safety if not the space
of flesh watching the wound respond. O, the light
this shadow culls. Easy to aim with every arrow warped.