Traci Brimhall | Poetry
“All is seen.”—Dante’s Virgil, Inferno, Canto XXXIV
What startles first is that it’s there.
After long hours in the car
when thought seemed
seamless with forward
motion, & the body,
a home you left that morning—
& now it’s naked & unyielding,
a narrative,
if you’ll have it
that the scars know more
about your past
than you choose to remember—
the exact angle & slip
of a blade
in your cheek you’ve spent
months trying to douse
in the gasoline
of a better story.
& the stretch marks
rivuleting your breasts, the body’s
overreactive white-
washing, the blot
where your areola was once
pink. It takes
imagination to say that what’s there
in the mirror
is what’s you—
which is why most creatures don’t
feel guilt.
& if they have
memories, the form wriggling
in that claw-trap
is another
member of the flock,
witnessed. & the doves they released
over your brother’s grave wear
symbolism like buckshot
in the breast,
unknowingly.
Such dirty things
meaning purity.
All those you’ve called you.