– Sarolta Bán
My roots catch behind your sealed lids.
Your blue eyes are the firmament,
your pupils two defunct satellites.
Dissected and withheld I huddle
in your sightless sclera/apogee.
The mask most worn becomes a cage.
I am neither effigy nor disciple.
Must you assign all your misgivings to me?
Must you curse my name as if I were
a murder of crows come to pluck
your righteous harvest?
The clouds are my flesh,
my bones, the dreams
into which I situate my organs.
I am no better than you,