The Corner of Eye . . .
Liesl Jobson

. . . is an unreliable square, a questionable source of information, where leaves turn to scorpions, sticks to skeletons and blossoms to flames. When I turn to stare full on, there is no ostrich, but a persecuted black bag, stuffed with rubbish, no neck, but a mop mocking my insecurity. Beneath my feet are stones, not bread. How could I be confused when only pebbles rattle this underfoot rhythm? Yet, glass eyeballs do so too. I should like to pass a boulder in this wasteland and be sure it is not a backpack, because there is no fisherman in this desert, no farmer in this field. Only an owl alights on a rock to hoot derision at my need for fresh water, not waves. I wish the corner of my eye were round, like my longing for the moon.

First appeared in Green Dragon

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