The final belief is to believe in a fiction, there being nothing else. 

~Wallace Stevens


I would guess the final belief is more along the lines of holy
crap. But a fiction— a sort of mirage? That's something
I can get behind. The mirage, of course, like all life-
giving things, is a thirst-quenching green, or is it
the milk-green of baby almonds? Once, I pictured you
as a blue jay and once, the sky itself. I've seen you bearded,
sandaled, a flute-playing pachyderm. When a storm front slinks—
in unearthly soft, dove grays—I imagine you're a woman
who calls-in sick for a day, pulls covers over limbs, over head.


From the window of the bus, I can see into the cabin of a truck.
Two men, early 30s, the passenger rolling a joint. He's at the point
where leaves, stems and seeds are well-contained, and he holds
it as delicately as snake does egg. At the next stoplight, he twists,
and with a great flourish of tongue, seals the deal.
The driver's face is all hopelessness and anticipation of relief.
Once, this was how I saw you, too. 

Lissa Kiernan is poetry editor of Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal and founder of online poetry community The Rooster Moans. She lives in Brooklyn, New York with her husband and four cats, and is pursuing her MFA at Stonecoast, the University of Southern Maine.

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