Holly Salmon recently moved to Vancouver, BC, but still manages to teach writing as an adjunct in the English department at the University of New Haven, where she was also the Director of the Writing Center. She has an MA in English from the University of North Texas.
Theory of Art
The security guard asked.
The docent asked.
A young man in a hockey jersey pardoned himself, and asked.
Another guard looked at me strangely.
I asked.
Did I lose my glasses?
I was not sure.
I did not wear glasses, yet.
I found myself on the first floor by the door.
Excuse me, I think I may have lost my glasses.
I am not sure.
She got back on the elevator.
The glasses seemed to fit all right.
Maybe slipping down off her nose more than they should,
but that made it easier to read the cards next to the paintings.
She looked at
to see if she liked it better.
The lines blurred and waved
and she liked it the same.
She looked at Virtue’s achromatic
The spills and throes of paint
seemed the same.
And, she liked it the same.
So much, the same.
She thought about trying
Whatman’s watermarks again,
with her glasses.
But she was not sure it would not be the same.
She returned to the desk.
Some one asked.
The glasses?
I took them off and set them on the counter.
The ticket?
I reached in my coat pocket and found it,
reclaiming my backpack.
It felt right on my shoulders,
maybe slipping a little off the left.
I am not sure
if one shoulder is not shorter
than the other.
------
Palm Saturday
No line cut though the fleshy part
of my left hand.
Nothing curled
under the base of my thumb
but line-less skin.
I checked it, once, twice a day.
In January,
my skin cracked and froze
but no extra years appeared.
I tried to make the line
even shorter:
running yellows,
smoking reds,
---and longer:
no-yolk noodles,
walks to work.
Still five, maybe ten,
years left until
what of the numerous ends?
skin cancer diabetes
car crash brain tumor
google obsoleteness
One day a star appeared
right in the middle,
my curled fingers
in the shadow shape of
Two lines shot the star
upward from my left
wrist across Fate and nestling
between Life and Head.
The trail ran down my arm to
a mole on my shoulder.
Blindly, but knowingly,
turning to dig succulent bulbs
in the evening garden.
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