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Clairvoyance (Sunlight)


Sunlight falls through the square window into the water of the
inside pool and is reflected onto the blue wall above it. Ghost-
handkerchiefs, whiter at the folds. When I create a wave with
my hands, the view disperses, as in a blizzard, but soon, the
fluttering squares return. I could say that when I'm gone, I'll
come back to you like this, talking to myself the way the soul
does. If that is true, then whose soul is this? Sometimes I can
sense death coming and it is white, too. A name that enters,
disturbs the field as the first butterfly might. Mourning Cloak
with its velvet tippet, its golden hem. There are the two-by-fours
that hit us in the sensory world. And the medium approach of
evening, shuffling in the pines. There is the differentiation of
colors, louder for the painters. When I wake at dawn, a low-
grade fever of the mind, and go out on my porch to cool it off,
the spider web I don't see until rain strings its beads. Or the
dead, who wear the softer hands of the living.


Melissa Kwasny

Boston Review

March / April 2012


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