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, with no eye
to see what my suffering
exacted without end.
When the technician
changed the colors
on the echocardiogram
screen, my heart tried
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: Plume Issue #168 August 2025