<\/p>\n
Yesterday\u2019s snow, and this morning\u2019s
\nwindow. These same days start with
\nblack tea, burnt toast, vitamins. Thick
\nmittens, snow scraped off the front
\nstoop with the steel toe of my boot.
\nLater, a wool sweater for my shoulders,<\/p>\n
more tea, another slow afternoon; then
\ncold wind groaning all night long.
\nWalls sag into each other as the window
\nwatches, waits. Frosted. The glass
\nis astute and controlled, a doubled
\nsurveillance: a study of landscapes<\/p>\n
and still life exposed. Making angles
\nor shadows, light strikes the pane
\nand splits, inverted then reversed,
\njust like the eyes make sight.
\nThe interpretive tasks are all my own \u2013
\nI have this whole place to myself.<\/p>\n
And now that I\u2019ve whittled my body
\ndown to the bone, and carved
\nthis little bone into a flute held
\nopen to the wind, grief widens into
\none last staring eye, gaping mouth.
\nThe wind, too, is open mouths,<\/p>\n
another gagged sound heard again
\nand over again, as though someone
\nis trying to tell me my name. Or this
\nis only my imagination, alone
\nwith its own wildness. Meanwhile, you
\nare the haunt of this place.<\/p>\n
And as I pace this cage of freedom,
\neven these neglected houseplants
\nreach toward mourning. This is the same
\nas waiting, and this waiting
\nis the same.
\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I see by refraction, like viewing stars<\/p>\n
through the lens of a toy telescope: celestial bodies<\/p>\n
so close they almost lose themselves, overlapping<\/p>\n
as haloes at the curved rims of the frame. Wide-angled<\/p>\n
borders make blurred exposures, insights that my eyes<\/p>\n
only trespass toward when tired and at night: colour-blind<\/p>\n
or monoptic, REM in black-and-white. Every stare, each<\/p>\n
quick glance deflected by a peeled eyelid or plastic cap.<\/p>\n
Vanishing points foreshortened, resisting synthesis. Camera <\/em><\/p>\n obscura<\/em>, another sexless machine of shutter-clicks, contrasts,<\/p>\n luminance. Dimly distinguished shapes <\/em>cropped, mounted,<\/p>\n and reframed. Occlusion only persists with the severance<\/p>\n of the optic nerve, by common stigmatism or retinal tear<\/p>\n and detachment; the splitting of convex glass-work, corneal<\/p>\n scratch, another cataract. Now the eye will not focus,<\/p>\n clenched like a fist. And each cracked lens<\/p>\n is a lesson in myopia, depth of field,<\/p>\n point of view.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Something is almost forgotten. For example, across your face. The next move made, hilarious at the time, or delightful. From these luminous and destructive it becomes, such <\/p>\n I can see right through the window of the couple wouldn\u2019t recognize them if we came face-to-face their lovers. I\u2019m used to his hangdog look over the Sunday and that streak of the knife between them, slicing into fruit my one-night stands and the wild animals I have painted of things: we are only trying to stay alive, simply biding never quite drawing the curtains, nor pulling down <\/p>\n My skin is paper-thin, my body kind of rare archive, and you will find only and old textbooks, minor musical scores and crisp little lettres de cachet. <\/em>Also yellowed of abandoned lists. I suggest that you press envelopes, and mail it all off to somebody else. or mixed into a paste to make a hundred little origami ships and send them away downstream; else I\u2019m just one last miscellaneous file lost in the attic whims of any historian: Memoirs of an Old Atlas. The Secret Diary of Someone Else. So my skin the inventory of an anatomy, closely researched Res Obscura Yesterday\u2019s snow, and this morning\u2019s window. These same days start with black tea, burnt toast, vitamins. Thick mittens, snow scraped off the front stoop with the steel toe of my boot. Later, a wool sweater for my shoulders, more tea, another slow afternoon; then cold wind groaning […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":778,"parent":229,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-249","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/249","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=249"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/249\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":695,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/249\/revisions\/695"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/229"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/778"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue13\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=249"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Picture-Makers<\/h2>\n
\nthe clipped edge of a photograph, the other
\nend of a lens. The four corners of this frame,
\nand someone
\nor something
\ncasting a shadow<\/p>\n
\nwords said, the last breath taken. Your eyes
\nfocusing elsewhere, beyond. An interruption
\nyou\u2019re leaning toward, and reaching for
\nwhile laughing: someone said
\nsomething now
\nunknown, but<\/p>\n
\ndetails, nothing new can be made again. Half-
\nrecalled, mainly imagined, and on the constant
\nverge of going no further. Of knowing more
\nthan we can. And knowing more
\nthan we ever do
\nknow, or even knew
\nback then. How<\/p>\n
\nremembering. Or forgetting. The fine grain
\nof a close-up shot, the dark-filmed world
\nwithin the camera. Then this sudden
\nshock of light, exposed
\nto blind, to find us
\nall over again.
\n<\/p>\nNeighbourhood Watch<\/h2>\n
\nacross the street, and they peer right into mine.
\nWe\u2019re used to this. By now, it\u2019s just an ordinary
\nfact of our parallel lives. I don\u2019t know their names,<\/p>\n
\nin the local L\u2019InterMarch\u00e9 or m\u00e9tro station, but somehow
\nit never seems strange to watch through the placid glass
\nas they make love in the bath \u2013 with each other, or with<\/p>\n
\nGazette<\/em>, the frayed sleeves of her green nightgown, their
\nbrunches of coffee, half-burnt toast and cr\u00eapes suzette;
\ntheir emptied mugs and plates of peaches or blood oranges<\/p>\n
\nand silence. Meanwhile, they see the slack plants on my sill,
\nthe stacked books I use as a desk, my canned-soup suppers
\nand glasses of milk that I share with the cats; they count<\/p>\n
\nall over my walls. This rare encounter is made constant
\nthrough a window with the thickness of a mirror, yet
\nthe reflections catch just a fraction of the larger shape<\/p>\n
\ntime, lifting cups and spoons to our lips while keeping
\nan eye on each other. All things are dirty to the dirty-minded
\nbut at least we know how to keep this visibility discrete \u2013<\/p>\n
\nthe blinds. Always pretending not to watch, yet wanting
\nto be seen.
\n<\/p>\nExpos\u00e9<\/h2>\n
\nflat as a map. Unfold me like another<\/p>\n
\na study of old documents: loose sheets<\/p>\n
\nor unfinished sketchpads, aged tarot packs<\/p>\n
\ntabloid clippings, post-it notes, pages and pages<\/p>\n
\nwhat you can of this mess into second-hand<\/p>\n
\nSome of this can be burned and scattered as ash,<\/p>\n
\npapier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 fish. Or fold the other scraps into<\/p>\n
\na little fleet unsuited for battle or exploration. Or<\/p>\n
\nof a country museum, more raw material for the wildest<\/p>\n
\nDaughter of a Biography. Forgotten Field Notes,<\/p>\n
\nis paper-thin, my body is flat as a map: I\u2019m only<\/p>\n
\nand transcribed. Now take your red pen and revise.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"