The Ark: Self-Portrait as Aphrodite Using Her Dress for a Sail, xxx.

Or perhaps—perhaps—I am just an upturned tree, all my roots earth

laden and bare. Perhaps I fell over so I could worship at the altars of birds.



Or I am a harlequin waterfowl, speckled—black-white, black-white

hiding safely in day or night. My eyelids are made of feathers



so dark they throw off an emerald sheen. And here I am—still—at home

bobbing on top of this endless white sea, batting my lashes



toward every beacon—on any remaining shore—ignited

and burning brightly throughout all the black worlds.

From To the Realization of Perfect Helplessness (Alfred A. Knopf, 2022) by Robin Coste Lewis. Used with the permission of the publisher.