Eyes closed, lights out, the dark mirror shadows the history
traced by fingers down the side of the forehead
where there is small throbbing at the pulse,
along the cheek bone emerging from erosion of age,
across the eyelid that twitches in reflex,
down the nose bone to the nostril that flares at the meeting,
to the lips that grin barely,
finally, under the jawbone, down my throat’s silent ridges
ending in the dry pool of the soft V between collar bones.
Still in shadow, I press my hands into a forced prayer pose,
balance with one knee bent outward, and that foot pressed flat
against the opposite thigh.
Below the layer of my marble vanity no reflection exposes
this bipedal trickery of human legs.
The strength of one leg and its foot try to hold steady.
I feel in this moment of dark illusion far from the Jurassic,
upright like this, absolutely woman, set in the continuum of dust.
And I let go slow tears, my lonely catharsis
mimics the primordial glad hush of tidal waters converging
down the ages
the unmistakable gift of
ripples in stone.
-D. G. Dal Ponte (©2013)