This poem is taken from Stand 232, 19(4) January - March 2022.

Chet’la Sebree Two Poems
Entry

I seek truth in each prism like a dictionary definition—find fact in each entry, tidy in its articulation of knowledge. Search: earliest language. And even algorithms engineer answers left-aligned at ninety. All life’s knowledge beholden to right angles and rectangles like the block typeset of a biblical text. There’s something soothing about this illusion of equity—a bedfellow I seek but cannot find even in trees. Each branch will stretch at a different degree, will know nothing of symmetry. Eve the only one cursed for eternity. Is this what it is to be a part of the living? This being the prism. This being the tree.



Phosphene

Sometimes, cracks of blue light
travel across my closed eyes—portals
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