Smile, Eidolon

Gale Marie Thompson

I wait to come to good. I wait carved 

from the same war, wait draped 

by the mechanism between myself

and fabric pleasure, how pressed, how shut.

The icon I remember is ragged

and full of brown cardinals.

It sees me, parallel shoulders and not.

The young thing in a frame.

A slow press of film I wait for to ripen.

I am asking this of you. To see things out of order.

My body's floor bright and fixed with you,

clay mask powder in the tub and sink.

The finest way to avoid is through the body,

getting out so quickly it doesn't deserve

the name of leaving. I reveal the ship's bone

like a stammer, magnet a napkin of sage

to the fridge, fruitfly blood on my fingers.

We can't go back to empty forms.