Yesterday, I held up a page
torn from Glamour magazine
to a bright light. Each side
showed a full-page fashion photograph.
The bright light revealed
a translucent, composite scene. I smiled.
The fashion girl
from one side of the page seemed to be sitting
in the lap of the fashion girl
from the other side. One girl’s
leg even seemed to pass through
the other girl’s embracing arm.
Today, it occurs to me
as I sit here by that same light
that the events of yesterday
and the events of today
a translucent composition. In my mind
I see me sitting here writing,
and standing behind myself
looking right through that sexy page
from the fashion magazine.
But before I even begin
to speculate about how
carefully arranged those photographs, so who
carefully arranged me,
my first whole real thought is, damn it all,
that I’d rather have been part
of the fashion composition.
I frown. I’m never
in the right—so to speak—conspiracy.
But, like someone, somewhere
turning a page, that thought fades because
then it occurs to me
that my—so to speak—conspiracy
and the other
reveal a translucent composition, too.
And there I am! See?
My leg fits right through that fashion girl’s arm.
I see them clearly. You can, too.
Just hold up this poem
to the proper illumination.