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Things I Can't See

Zuzu Tadeushuk

I can't see whats behind me unless I turn around
and I can't see why tomatoes are considered fruit.
I can't see the spiteful jellyfish
that I feel swimming with me in Cinnamon Bay
and I can't see grapefruit membrane stuck in my teeth. I can't see anything living as I sit alone in this room
and I can't see much purpose in me
sitting alone in this room.
I can't see angels and I can't see ghosts-
though could I once? I do not know.
I can't see the threat that Mr. Madsen saw
in margaritas with lunch on an island where we were of drinking age,
and I can't see how The Dress was blue and black,
not white and gold. Actually, to me it looked green and gold. Olive,
like the socks I wore to take the SAT's.
I can't see why young kids need smartphones these days, or any phones for that matter.                                                                                                                                 I can't see in the dark.
I can't see what I can't remember,
and what is not documented in photographs.
I can't see how people who don't like chocolate
don't like chocolate
and how they endure heartbreak without it.
I can't see the masterplan for human existence,
and wouldn't want to, it's probably abstract.
I can't see Marie Antoinette,
dodo birds, or Pompeii,
I can't see my heart and its leaky valve.
I can't see excitement,
but only hear the thrum of wings somewhere behind
and turn and follow clumsily.
I can't see Grandma- unless I dig-
or the other one, powdered over the summer Seine.
I can't see where this flickering life of mine moves to
or where the delicate fanfare will end.