every facet contains a face
each one real but none quite true
not turned nor carved but cut like glass
and I have prism’d just like that
slanting time to make it last or
close my eyes until it passes
morning moon and nighttime noon
a sun note rising from the tomb
where I was once then once again
the face of now that’s now the past
unwrapped from time’s slow tourniquet
a flawless light imperfectly cast in
every face behind the glass
~ Liana Seaver 12/14
Last night, Denise Miller rocked it at FIRE and I hung around her too close a bit longer than necessary so something of her could rub off on me. That’s when I noticed a thing on the wall behind her–held up with thumbtacks. I scooched in to see it better. It was a poem I’d written last year; must have left it behind from my show in March. It didn’t get pitched. No name, but me…not thrown away. Perfectly anonymous. Whatev. I started to leave. Got to the door.
Then I turned around, borrowed Denise’s pen and signed the damn thing. This is my poem.