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Poetry
Pristine Emancipation
By Emily J. Favilla
On paper i'm a soldier
i'm a mother, i'm a fish,
your intrusive muscle spasm
just as you consent to fall asleep;
an LSD-induced delirium,
your phobia of ordinarily
ordinary
household kitchen applications
and floating mannequins in the closet
(or some equally disturbing mirage
I couldn't create with such unabashed
improv ease
in person.)
On paper
you've forgotten
that it sometimes takes
ten seconds too long
to recall the word
i'm searching for;
leaving a blur of me mistaken
for
undereducated,
overtired,
and undeserving of attention.
On paper I'm not awkward,
stumbling over broken sidewalks
or just about my own two feet
when my thoughts meander
faster than my legs allow me to compete.
(And I wonder then just why it is
my heels
are undeserving of artistic license, too?)
On paper I first ascertained
that on paper
i can close my eyes and still see where i'm going.
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