and one asks to be so viewed.
Largely having forgotten my hand
I turned to my face and was spent.
A portrait met another one
but there was no ground on which to stand so they knelt.
Fear took the form of falling snow
while the aged in the water barely moved.
The body widened and asked to be forgotten
just as groundless fear fell as show.
Hands in the face and later
until largely having turned, they were blessed.
Julie Carr lives in Oakland, California where she is a pursuing a Ph.D. in English Literature from UC Berkeley. Her book MEAD: An Epithalamion is forthcoming from UC Georgia Press in the Fall. Other sections from MEAD are in recent or forthcoming issues of American Letters and Commentary, 3rd Bed, The Canary, Pool, Xantippe, and LIT.