My Eyes


My eyes are vexed

not from crying

but from the tally

of sins unwept,

allowed to swell

in dull, blue renderings

just below the surface

of head and heart,

like a tattoo of tears or

a debris dammed creek,

symbols of damage

past the point of

erasure or release.




A List Of My Sins


As if I were included in the supper

with your/our old friends,

it being a couples thing.

As if I could simply disappear

like all the other guests and eat

and rest and not chase litter.

As if you had asked me once

about my work, my life, my dreams.

As if you sought my presence for roles

beyond chorus or balladeer.

As if you could really read me here

when you couldn’t read me there.

As if my wanting once to walk a water meadow

was misguided selfishness.

As if I might behave after another scolding

from the list of my sins,

your Möbius strip list of my sins,

all listed here.

As if.







C. R. Resetarits has new work out now in Crannóg (Pushcart nominated) and Stand; out soon in The Wisconsin Review, Reed Review, and Litro. Her poetry collection, BROOD, was recently published by Mongrel Empire Press, 2015. She lives in Faulkner-riddled Oxford, Mississippi.

featured photography by badpoem