What’s this?! A poem? On a Tuesday??? Why, yes. Yes, it is. I wrote this poem on a whim, and while it may not be the most eloquent, I thought I’d share because it’s one of my favorites. I hope you enjoy!
***
Chord of Faces
If deja vu
had deja vu,
a spinning song too similar
to a ballad belted before,
then that would be
my symphony.
A chord of faces
reminding you of someone,
but they have dissipated
right from the tip of your tongue.
I have not only rented here
at a previous place in time;
this place looks exactly
how I feel:
a numbed memory,
a wisp of the past
lifting into the air,
twirling its tail,
disappearing from beneath
your fingers.
A man once told me
that I look like an actress,
my long, wavy hair,
my nose, maybe.
But I’m not.
To me, an unfamiliar face
looks like a cheap replica
of the real thing.
An empty piece of pottery
painted like Picasso’s
Starry Night.
Knock-off Hugh Jackman.
Orlando Bloom from the Dollar Store.
She could be Sasha Turner’s
niece’s husband’s dog’s previous owner,
thrice-removed.
A different man,
wearing a black top hat,
asked if we’d met.
We hadn’t, but in his eyes
lay recognition, as if, as if
in my eyes,
he caught a glimpse of
someone else’s
soul.
I pass another landmark
in a place unfamiliar,
and I feel the building
reach out to me.
It says, “I know you,”
but I don’t know it.
I’ve passed it ten thousand times,
for a million miles,
yet all I see are different
blurry lands,
marked only by their
strangeness to my eyes.
East and West mean nothing to me.
They are distant second cousins
that I never see,
but they still remember,
and I don’t.
Every once in a while,
a rush of warmth runs
through my bones
and I say, “Yes! There you are.
I found you.”
And they say,
“I’m sorry. Have we met?”
Another man told me once
that to listen to my voice
is like pulling
teeth.
On the phone, I can wear
a disguise.
I sound like
my sister.
In person, I sound like
a mouse squeak,
a whisper of a ghost’s ghost.
When I become a ghost,
what will I be?
Even alive,
I leave no footprints,
every step I take,
my joints pop and creak,
an orchestra of grinding bones.
My ankles crack, my neck
stretches, my spine
pops, chord by chord—
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—
Still, no one hears my approach.
A woman once told me
to speak up, so
I yelled.
A silence fell, and I’m sure
I reminded her
of something
that is not me.
If deja vu
had deja vu,
then I am Picasso’s
Starry Night.
Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash
Rachel Sandell 