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| betül akyürek |
A Poem Twice-Read, Half-Seen
The pond is still a humble pool whose edges
aren’t horizons like the sea. There are woods
all around it, three ducks paddling across it
are just ducks. No fish have surfaced or even nearly.
Its water isn’t rain nor vapor, only a muddy grey
placeholder obscured sunlight has yet to paint
with rainbows. The scene’s a brick we’d grind
to make a mirror if it weren’t one already
not that we can see and yet, vaguely, nearly conscious,
it nudges us with glitters, flashes glimpsed side-eye
we just might have seen ourselves
maybe on a third reading, it invites.
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| Don Brandis |
Don Brandis lives quietly outside Seattle, reading and writing poems when they show up. He has a degree in philosophy and a long fascination with Zen. Some of his poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Black Moon Magazine, Blue Unicorn, Last Leaves, and elsewhere. A book of his poems, called Paper Birds (Unsolicited Press, 2021), is available. He hasn’t read your poems either, unless he did so without knowing they were yours.
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