Vanishing Point
I have an incision scar on
the inside of my upper lip
because I insisted on
dancing in the dining room.
Stone and flesh repel each other
and I bear the mark.
The most sensitive
part of my body is not the same as
everyone else’s. The cold slithers
along the floor, slips through
my skin and curls
around my insides.
The sun goes down around
my ankles on summer
nights when I’ve had
too much wine. I start
to tell things I didn’t even
know about me.
Me darts behind trees and
in front of moving cars
running for the horizon,
in open-toed sandals.
Me seeks the edge of the world
while my vanishing point is here
Trisha A. Farco is a second year Ph.D. student at Binghamton University. She hails from Carle Place, New York, and is a lover of 19th- century literature and a slight film fanatic. If she had a time machine, but could only take one trip she would have a hard time chosing between taking tea with Jane Austen or having a drink with Barbara Stanwyck. Her chapbook Man-Eater of Kumaon was recently published by Finishing Line Press.
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