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.