Poetry by Jael
She
by jael bietsch

In mirrors it is
the mist that rounds her
smooth cardboard skin
and her hands know
this is not her.
She would burn
away the paper, imagines herself
rain, chases light.

In mists overcast
she is the air around her
and her coat unfurls
and her hair unfurls
a flag for her country
self. This is not her.

But in a close coffin she twitches
her lips, kisses the glass. Her own
blind reflection pressed against light
which burns, makes her that which she is
not. She imagines herself cremated,
leaves it behind.

Behind closed eyes,
wonders if dead, he
would know her, would recognise
the mole east of her navel, twin white scars
on her right wrist. If it were all
burned away, would he lie
prone, pressed against stone
listening for the damp
murmurings of mist, taste the salt,
would he say this is the body which weighted
the soul that welmed, would
trace the fossil ruins and say these
marks are the poems her soul etched
into her bones or would he, missing the dead
sea blue eyes, missing the light
altogether, say he never knew
her?

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    © 1995 Jael Bietsch

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    March 8, 2000