It’s not about laying your fork and knife
next to the plate, parallel and always pointing
north, each steely tine seeming to say
I shall in all my best obey you, Madam.
It’s not about the clouds that still hang on you.
It’s not about stepping into sanctuaries with
thin lips and a belly full of lowliness. It’s
not about saying yes. It’s not about
unremembering the blue blooms you’ve seen
puddling under the pink skin that loves you.
It is about craving new eyes for every
living thing. May the toad see the cricket, may
the owl see the vole. May Claudius clap eyes
on his nephew at long last. May Hamlet see
Ophelia. May all the I’m sorries come out.
Cover image by Darya Tryfanava.
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