ECHO (AND NARCISSUS)
I saw it in midcentury
black and white footage:
a hazy maw opening
and closing insufficiently,
a mouth that could never
speak yet never fully
close–it had no choice
but to be my heart.
A night- and day-laborer
who never got to rest,
nor ever understand
what my suffering
exacted without end.
When the technician
changed the colors
on the echocardiogram
screen, I saw my heart trying
to whisper violet
sawdust into words.
I love you, I thought,
as if speaking
to a mirror: I’m sorry
for the loves I served
that made you into this.
Plume: