BY JAMIE PARSLEY
From its place on the ceiling,
the cycloptic red eye winks and
instant I am made transparent.
Above and below the fractions of
light work through me, leaving me
as a cloud.
What more can I do than lie
here, still as
What more can I do than be
the white canvas for the
to mark out her abstract black lines?
I breathe. I move
here or there
as they need me to. I look up, I look
to the side.
I am quiet when I need
to be. I laugh when I should. I do
I'm told to do.
When I finally come down off
photography glass, I am
stiff and aching. I stumble a little.
I smile and shake my head. And I
wait. What is it my body will do
to make sense of this invisible intrusion?
It will do the
only thing it can -- it will leave
a shadow of its self on the table
for them to line me up against tomorrow.