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
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