by Ana Elsner
Not in a tinplated
beggar’s cup of watery soup
do I perceive your countenance.
Not in a fine white china
dish of consommé
is your delicate effervescent face appeared.
Not in a dirty puddle
on the oil-slicked tarmac
resides the fine-boned hologram of you.
Not in the basin of holy water
that is just on the inside of the chapel doors
does your perfect reflection live?
…not in the windows of a passing train,
…or on the shiny propeller blades of a plane,
…nor in a sheet of rain,
…nor in the bright, reflective pane
of plate-glass disillusionment and sly disdain.
I do so try to re-envision you,
but must explain,
that all attempts
of my Forgetting Eyes