Don’t look for a unifying face.
Rather, be the air
that holds the bird, the dark
at the perfected edge of lamplight,
an expanding room of locks
where disarray prepares itself.
At my wedding I wore white,
flat as I could be. This, so that
later, a defector to the background,
I could fool the pez-nerce viewer
trying to guess at my happiness.
I swirled in the olive groves
now crammed into a can of white
walls. What once was out is in.
You taught me about
containment, and now
nothing will keep my anonymity
off the edge of the map.