Self-portrait as a ghost that cannot be pinned down or turned into silk

I am not an object.
I am the explosive night sky:
each star an instant of lived experience.

I am not the ornate glass owl that sits on your shelf,
never expressing more than its purpose.
(I am not ornate at all.)

No, I breathe life into spoons and forks,
I lift metaphor to my lips with a kiss,
I amplify the meaning of objects.

I am not a flock of old socks but on gunmetal days I transform:
I am the bottom drawer in a bureau,
threatening to spill over into mysticism.

Despite poetic intention I am not an object.
But I have felt the mizzle of objectification
on my body like a coat that is too tight.

When the zipper gets stuck and I ask for help,
will you see me as more than one thing?
I am a white gold ring worn on the wrong finger,

a snag on your gaze—torn.
Being likened to one object,
I bear witness to ghosts.

© Being Women Today 2017 ebook

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