Mara Jebsen
Revision
Now it is gold everywhere; gold in the leaves and in smears along the stone
of the houses and slipping in the houses, and dancing with the shadows to form
patterns and the patterns, how shall I say, making sense; being “at a glance”
in one of the thousands or millions of arrangements that do not defy
physics; light and matter behaving themselves, at least mostly, and this
is how I know that my eye is healing; that the blood-splash in the vitreous
that cast onto the world its own garbled designs, interrupting reality with its
shadowy churning, is fading, though in truth it is not fading; in truth streaks of blood
will always stain the innards of my eye, but the mind inside the skull reforms!
It sometimes can happen that the the mind inside the skull, over thousands of hours,
detecting mosquito, oil-spill, spiderweb; the cloud that is not there, tells itself,
“That is not there,”-- “that is not reality;” and drawing out of itself some little eraser,
gently begins to run eraser over spiderweb, so that a little more gold
and leaf and streak along the stone and house and gold slipping into the house,
and darting into shadow--comes into view, behaving more or less
as they should, as dictated by laws of light and of gravity; as if reality is king.
But should I not call this process--magic?
Now it is gold everywhere; gold in the leaves and in smears along the stone
of the houses and slipping in the houses, and dancing with the shadows to form
patterns and the patterns, how shall I say, making sense; being “at a glance”
in one of the thousands or millions of arrangements that do not defy
physics; light and matter behaving themselves, at least mostly, and this
is how I know that my eye is healing; that the blood-splash in the vitreous
that cast onto the world its own garbled designs, interrupting reality with its
shadowy churning, is fading, though in truth it is not fading; in truth streaks of blood
will always stain the innards of my eye, but the mind inside the skull reforms!
It sometimes can happen that the the mind inside the skull, over thousands of hours,
detecting mosquito, oil-spill, spiderweb; the cloud that is not there, tells itself,
“That is not there,”-- “that is not reality;” and drawing out of itself some little eraser,
gently begins to run eraser over spiderweb, so that a little more gold
and leaf and streak along the stone and house and gold slipping into the house,
and darting into shadow--comes into view, behaving more or less
as they should, as dictated by laws of light and of gravity; as if reality is king.
But should I not call this process--magic?
Underbeat
I have wanted to be one
of the deep water women.
Not wind-gnarled, foam-flecked,
not tossed by flimsy sheets of light
but good and far down,
with barnacles lacing
flank, shin. With fish scales in
my hair. Down there
in the crusted dark I can hear
nothing.
Bloodbeat against silence.
My mind
sharking.
I have wanted to be one
of the deep water women.
Not wind-gnarled, foam-flecked,
not tossed by flimsy sheets of light
but good and far down,
with barnacles lacing
flank, shin. With fish scales in
my hair. Down there
in the crusted dark I can hear
nothing.
Bloodbeat against silence.
My mind
sharking.
--
Mara teaches at New York University. She received her MFA from NYU and BA from Duke University. Mara holds a New York Foundation for the Arts award in poetry and her book, 'The White Year' was a finalist for the Jake Adam York prize with Milkweed Editions. Mara's work can be found in American Poetry Review, Hanging Loose Press, jubilat, Sixth Finch and in other journals. She was raised in Lome and in Philadelphia.
Mara teaches at New York University. She received her MFA from NYU and BA from Duke University. Mara holds a New York Foundation for the Arts award in poetry and her book, 'The White Year' was a finalist for the Jake Adam York prize with Milkweed Editions. Mara's work can be found in American Poetry Review, Hanging Loose Press, jubilat, Sixth Finch and in other journals. She was raised in Lome and in Philadelphia.