Semblance: Screens

Liz Waldner

A moth lies open and lies

like an old bleached beech leaf,

a lean-to between window frame and sill.

Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths

and other dirts beneath.

Although the white paint is water-stained,

on it death is dirt, and hapless.

The just-severed tiger lily

is drinking its glass of water, I hope.

This hope is sere.

This hope is severe.

What you ruin ruins you, too

and so you hope for favor.

I mean I do.

The underside of a ladybug

wanders the window. I wander

the continent, my under-carriage not as evident,

so go more perilously, it seems to me.

But I am only me; to you it seems clear

I mean to disappear, and am mean

and project on you my fear.

If I were a bug, I hope I wouldn't be

this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly,

skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling,

fumbling for the face of the other, seeking.

It came in with me last night when I turned on the light.

I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face.

It wants out. I want out, too.

I thought you a way through.

Arms wide for wings,

your suffering mine, twinned.

Screen. Your unbelief drives me in,

doubt for dirt, white sheet for sill --

You don't stay other enough or still

enough to be likened to.