Almost

By Carla Cordell

Depending on the shifting of the moon I gaze, or I shuffle quickly.

My eyes observe, no filters, real staring.  Occasionally I might follow, vacantly, languidly, not really there but not hiding.

I’m watching a version of myself, I am watching a version of a friend.  

I like to stop draw breath and confront. I owe that to past lives.

Others prefer to avert eyes. Afraid to catch a hint.

Madness, the instinctive rebel within us. Bestial wild rebellion.

Lunacy, a relapse to paganism.

Insanity as shamanic

Our repressed souls clanking at the bolted door

A strange envy, true freedom. High and nonculpable. 

Cracked heels in flipflops or trainers with soles flapping.

Men’s shoes on women’s feet and an oversized blazer.

I think, where’s her mother ?

Cross legged swaddled, a vast puddle of butts

My refection in a shop window.

Not quite, very nearly. Almost