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.

Credit

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