[223 words]
I gave you this, she says,
hands too full of tension to gesture.
She might have attempted to pirouette,
but her joints remain fixed.
This leaves room for interpretation
on what offerings will
be considered, and by whom.
There are so many facets between gifts
and gratitude.
She studies philosophy, but cannot spell,
so the white paper before her
is often blank or bruised
with ink-marks that have no form.
Her attention is always moving from frame
to floor, teaching herself timing.
Teaching herself how to arrange her face.
Alarmed by her own reflection
in spoons or unsuspecting storefronts,
she tallies up victims as martyrs,
then uses their shadows as her own.
When she blinds herself staring
too long at the sun, she throws rocks
into teapots to prevent relapse,
to avert revelation.
She always forgets the story
of her own middle name.
We see parameters in absolutes, she and I.
We have revisited the stations
that shaped our outer layers.
Where I chose a turtle’s shell,
she embraces camouflage.
But the truth is
everyone wants a witness.
I ask what she thinks she has given
with all these tight corners
and dirt paths to nowhere.
She is startled that my hands move at will.
This, I tell her, is a testament.
This is how it feels
to look away from the sun.
Leda Muscatello resides in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her inspirations include cheap wine and antique keys. Leda never learned to juggle; however, she did spend a summer perfecting fire-breathing. Her work can be found most recently published in Sequoia Speaks, Cosmic Daffodil Journal, and Instant Noodles.
