Dilated Iris
I know something of betrayal-
how lies can be white or hide in the silence;
a kind smile that glides over violence-
rifle to scope to dilated iris.
The left hand that beguiles
and the tight right fist
Denial of the dawn, sunlight from the mist.
I’ve seen eyes try to hold mine
but waver.
What is it to decipher a smile
that refuses to be labeled?
Mired and incapable.
Tired.
Replaceable.
A void inside bends the mind
and makes it feel unstable-
A too taught wire
Or a fire, insatiable.
This is not a test.
If you should choose to salvage what’s left,
uncurve your spine from rest.
Breathe one breath
(deep, two seconds)
and seek three ribs down, then left.
Crack open your chest.
Wet smooth muscle
pulsing,
daily
divulging
time,
always lamenting,
always despondent,
infinitely bereft.
This isn’t the part that’s best.
This isn’t all that’s left.
You’re more than tissue,
algorithm,
breath?
You’re made of this
and made of what’s left.
Ars vivendi ars moriendi est.
Copyright © Megan Swell | Year Posted 2021
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