Sunday, February 21, 2016


Brocken Inaglory, "Reflection in a
soap bubble
," 2007

I voice these words here with the same
breath that fogs the mirror, the breath
that fills soap bubbles. How long might
these bubbles fly? Far longer than I will.
I’ve seen that stream of bubbles blown
by me, when I was a child, soar past my
sight; they must have carried my breath
in their iridescent bellies across oceans,
coming to rest in the frost of the Arctic,
breaking upon touching rime. I breathe
these words through a loop that shapes
them no less than the wand we dipped
in soapy water when we were children—
wand & loop, embouchure disembodied
into thought, into memories. It’s a small
circle through which my breath passes,
here; I read aloud what I write, making
sure it sings. But that loop’s enough to
hold the liquid that wraps these words,
spoken or unvoiced, and send them on.

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