Mirrors are cold against the skin
a certain distance is required to let in the light
absorb and realign the rays
twist the skein of fire
around the head
tight compress or poultice
there isn’t any difference now
the bleeding has stopped
and eyes gleam out in the night.
Black moons seed snow
wavering grain, flickering lights
a band of restless particles
whenever you turn the page
or try to open the door.
Unstitching the roads, pulling out the long rose fibers dangling from trees, moving along quickly, the concrete soft grey today, the stream swiftly by the side of road, clatter of beer cans if the car swerves, heavy dew and fog, ears against the noise wall, the sound barrier, the whistle of a train in the distance, it is yellow gold, it has petals of smoke and sparkling flowers, but nobody believes there are gardens on the sun that sway and contract, expand and disappear into the emptiness, into the conjectural spaces behind today, unstitching the roads, pulling along the silken fleece of the air, the car hugs the road, trees arching overhead, moving along as we turn around the sun, planting the blackened seeds that survived the fall.
Andrea Moorhead is editor of Osiris and translator of contemporary Francophone poetry. Moorhead publishes in French and in English. Poetry collections include From a Grove of Aspen (University of Salzburg Press), The Carver’s Dream (Red Dragonfly Press 2018), and À l’ombre de ta voix (Le Noroît). Translations include Night Watch (Abderrahmane Djelfaoui, Red Dragonfly Press), and Dark Menagerie (Élise Turcotte, Guernica Editions, 2014). She is the featured poet in the autumn 2018 issue of The Bitter Oleander.