Beth Williams
Drive Me Like A Hybrid

You are preconditioned to line
yourself up with issues, expect
me to pause at your reflection. The buzz
of connection is missing when only air
exists. I am not a single scrap
of fabric. Here, run your hand
along my seams and you won't recognize
yourself in stitches. Notice my body
as a costume of parts, more than the loose
conjunction of bone. Be prepared
for random entanglement, the cuts
that make a pattern fit better against
a frame. Try it on, but know what's sewn
together is born of two opposing souls.

*

An Argument With Myself

Observation builds a case
one angle at a time, debates each brace
holding up the other side. I stop
in front of the mirror to understand
reflection. Here, something similar
to myself agrees. Yet I cannot say
anything with certainty. Even writing
a thought down sounds like pretend.
Watch my pen dance across the page
arguing with the slightest idea of truth.
Art is just one thrill that thrives in fiction.
I know myself best when talking to birds.
Whistle, and watch heads turn.
Listen, and you might be believed.