By Terry Wright
Deep within your iris, I feel the petal of betrayal unfurl:
I know now: you did not need me. Why not just blame me:
think of all the things you could blame me for. My Exacto-knife,
scalpeling dissection of all your blame, carving pieces to one side:
of course you could blame me for that; and other pieces to the other side:
how could you blame me for that? Until the onion was
cut away layer by layer and then the layers were reassembled on either
side of the dissection tray: still an onion, after all.
Even my roots have roots: That is what bows your head, buckles your
knee, flattens out your arches: me. I’m the one sitting on
your shoulders. I’m the ghost in every single photograph’s frame: placid,
immovable as a cow: my legs drape around your neck, my
heels kick against your diaphragm: it’s me. You know, because you must,
you would not have done any of it without me.
