A Letter for Him, the Unseeing Nearby

By Katelynne Davis

I know I’ll never take up space
even in your peripheral vision
Perhaps block and reflect the light,
but because of the laws of physics, and nothing more
and even those are bent by the mind

Instead I will invisibly watch,
non-existent, by your estimation,
and yet still be here
The paradox may be enough amusement to sustain me
and anyway when we both turn
I’ll be utterly unprepared for that darkness;
all the better for it

Still I’ll read your letters to her
and you’d be shocked at the intrusion, though they are silently public
on that anonymous yawp above the rooftops, drowned out by the
screams of so many others
vying to be heard
for fear of what rises from below
Whether flood or hellfire, or nothing at all; who dares look back to see

Dancing on your edges, I pause to wonder who has been on mine
It’s too late to look back, but maybe
a glimpse in my eye’s corners
was enough for them to be remembered

Every broke-off piece of a street-sung song
Every lit window I’ve ever looked through
Every wrong coffee order pushed across the counter
Every study into a staring eye
I’ll ask them


Photo by Katelynne Davis

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