by Yoana Tosheva
The sun is, an egg yolk, a coin, a sunflower –
always anything but the sun.
Then there’s this –
a picture perfect photograph,
but my smile is grotesque,
or rather, it doesn’t belong to me.
Out of place.
Have you noticed that no matter where you’re headed
all the lines on the street seem to turn away from you?
Propel themselves into oblivion so quickly they spin
you into vertigo
if you allow yourself to be swept up in them too long.
This means something.
The moon is a ghost,
a crystal ball,
a fingernail –
always the moon.
Then there’s this – seeing something through the lens of something else.
I see the moon but really, I am looking at the light of the sun.
I see my mother but really, I am looking at the dark side of myself.