I am the splitting image of a window
setting into the sea;
dark behind the swelling reflections
(and lamp-less from dreaming).
The horizon is sinking too;
it leaks across the road home
and laps at the front stoop.
I bolt the door out of necessity
(today, safe from the vast sky).
In the museum, the statues
cover themselves with dust
cloths like we ought
to save this life for later.
(A civilization is remembered,
in part, for its art, is it not?)
But first, I must forget, must
slide off the earth all skin and
bone, all transparent against
the star-wrought gates of space.
The ebbing reflections follow:
insubstantial ghosts without
memories to tether them.
And now, drifting closer
to the parallel world that orbits
our sun, (a world measured
in nights,) I find myself
somewhere in between:
an almost place.
Here, landscapes painted
from the eyes of the beholden.
Gravity: a rock steady in the rapids.
And river: a horse, or chariot,
or absolutely essential. Statues
as artists and the person that I once was
a window. The sea reflecting
and reflecting and reflecting.
Jade Riordan’s poetry has appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, CV2, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Outrageous Fortune, Room, and elsewhere. She lives north of Canada’s 60th parallel and volunteers as a selection committee member (poetry reader) with Bywords.