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by Jessica Harman



My laugh is getting better. "You laugh
normally," my neurologist said, ghosts
and cinnamon on her skin, and a golden glow

in the room. Once she asked me to describe
something in her office. She took notes
as I spoke about the velvet box

on the lowest shelf of her bookcase.
"Very good," she said, and then lowered
her voice, and looked me in the eye, "You are a poet."

I was cast in this delectably soft bronze
light, where I make words glimmer
in the flicker from here to nowhere.


Copyright 2008 by Jessica Harman

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