Dear viewer, I know you want
the granular: all the details,
not just the gist; the gristle,
the fat, not merely echo of bone.
You want the whole enchilada,
so to speak, and I’m truly sorry
to disappoint. When it comes down
to spilling the tea, the older I get,
it turns out, I’d rather not. Feel free
to chalk-up my shortcomings
to any or all: my misbegotten desires,
wishy-washy ways, or maybe
plain-old cowardice. In some instances,
on each count you’d be right. Yet
I hope it might alter your view a bit
to consider: like you, I too
despise many things. Example?
I never cared much for orange.
And now? Can’t stomach the sight of it.
So must I traffic in that colour,
or any other, to prove my bonafides?
My politics? Such exertion,
despite best intentions, I’ve found
has a nasty penchant for shrivelling
not sharpening perspective.
If I could stand in any landscape
and with certainty sift
foreground from background, perhaps
the situation would be different.
But after years spent squinting
to see each image singularly,
clearly I’ve thrown in the towel.
Even now, I’m again confusing
the figurative for the literal—
a gift or curse, depending
on your purview, I suppose.
Goodbye and hello
mean the same in many a language
on this globe. If sadly not the idiom
in which I make my home,
I take heart in such coincidence,
the sometime-benevolence
of fate. I hope you might also,
dear viewer, and please,
if it pleases you, believe me
when I say: everything you imagine
I have stranded outside the frame
is bristling inside of it.
