by Julia Harris
The imperceptible takes the face of the last face
you saw. So while you drift in the between, lean
sideways so daylight inverts you. Like a dark
thought, ripped open. Most of darkness is an
illusion. A sun spot where the face was. A bulging
eye where the light was. A white flower splitting
open. You rub your spine against its stem and
your skin sparks. You feel the dark core. This is
how you’ll begin to unravel your way into
elliptical. You leave a piece of your skin on the
mirror. You toss the red ribbon from your hair, it
cuts into the wind. If you could cut yourself into
the wind. If you could be that thread. The spinning
out of. The open wound carried in the open hand.
Full of seeds, the things you carry. Toss them.
Pollinate the silence. Scatter the hollow.