Monday, April 7, 2014


by Christine Fojas

I am but an array of surfaces
pressed down, accreting context
like how a rock is born
by fire or other forces
that's how history is made

we write it in our own words
all of us lying. light
deflected by prismic sides
sharp enough to cut

can you slice a part of yourself
and pin it down onto a plate?
the water streams over me

catching nothing. can we be
half-dreamed? smoke in our veins?

how dare you ask me who I am.

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