PROSE POETRY
I Look Like a Plate
A prose poem that may or may not be intended in jest
Who are you to tell me that I look like my skin and not what I see?
There’s choice in seeing, you see. Only so much can be seen, and with every sense available, there is certainly more creativity in seeing than in photography — more permutations of experience to pick from, that is. An itch here. A crack there. Coolness. Each leaf, I pluck off with my eyes. Is this not a choice? And have not some perfectly sane people said that you are what you choose?
Now, I see a plate. With crummy remanence. A plate, in my eye. A plate, being my vision. A collaborator, broken.
What did you say? The plate can be left behind while I remain? I could leave my hand here — or my face —
What did you say? The plate is lifeless? You forget the act of forging and shattering to sand. You forget holding. You forget the droplets gathered in a birdbath. In a storm, the rain is a poet as much as anything ever was. It pours from itself and from the place it falls towards —
And that plate. What is it? Does it matter that I just called it a name? That I thought of it, especially? This thing has no eyes, no “look-like” without a looking. What could it ever be without my gaze?
