if i’m telling the truth—and i am, this time—
every time i look at myself in the mirror i’m looking for someone else.
this secret dialect, disguised in broad daylight, selfhood split
in two: perceived and imagined. the gap is so wide it echoes.
what ungodly thing i am,
and outside of dreams—how?
conceive of ourselves with whose womb?
whose blood to wash us anew each month?
whose wonderful life is this?
whose good enough?
allow me this one thing:
a moment of surety. unhesitation.
certain. yes. yes in all its shapes.
yes in the heatwaves off in the distance,
yes in the expansive nothingness overhead,
yes all the way through my body and into the ground.
sure. sure. sure. sure.
this is it: i want to be here long enough to see the streetlights turn on.
see how the sun dips behind the hill and leaves us with the blessed dark.
and i want to be here tomorrow, too, for the next day
already fading, just for the chance to make myself sick on sun.
and if there is transformation in this,
some impossible, holy birth, i will be this body’s god.
Alex Sosebee is a writer, circus teacher, and stage manager from Ithaca, NY. Their work has previously appeared in Breakwater Review. Alex edits for Kalopsia Literary Journal.