Official History
By day you work as a journalist, pursuing the legends
of other people. It is October, gold leaves
fall before your birthday.
Little mysteries swirl with you, a Tess—
hunting out some dented spoon or crest,
finding instead sad tales, a drunk,
a slaveholder, a bastard son.
The cracked stone of an out of wedlock woman.
In Boston or Brooklyn
you carry some rune, afraid to see an old lover,
afraid of the news of war.
Each tale is a disguise. The air is full of smoke.
Your friends barter carbon, prepare for pandemics.
You think in airports, watching
tarmacs flicker in your reflection.
Leave versions of selves in the various cities.
Misplace your doppelgangers.
Little Americas, discarded paperbacks.
Sometimes it is strange to recognize
distinct cities below in the shape of lights.
If only your own body’s shape was so clear.
Tess Taylor
Posted over on her site Tess Taylor
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