Exangel

by Marissa Bell Toffoli.

 

Shrouded in mist like this morning,

each of us before another.

Understanding seems a ship sailing a rough ocean.

 

It is how wholly human we are that scares me.

See how I fidget with the rings on my fingers,

look away and back again?

(I am uncomfortable.)

 

Sometimes I feel lonely as a shipwreck on an island.

I wish subtitles would appear

to clarify your words and mine.

(I study what your hands say

that your mouth holds back.

Curve of your lips, angle of your chin,

your stillness in consideration.)

 

I’m afraid I won’t make it without a map.

(Mastery is a mystery.)

Meaning is elastic.

Certainty, elusive as a mermaid.

 

We each picture our own version of her,

full of promises.

At best, the common ground is that we think

of a creature only half human.

Now navigate interpretation (translation).

 

There’s an openness in silence

I’ve come to appreciate.

Language is a loose braid,

thick and long, flowing down the back

of a mermaid as she disappears in the waves.

 

 

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