The Persistence of a Sense of Otherness
on the Planet Where I Was Supposedly Born

My eye is hungry,
a voracious mouth
that consumes the world with Apollonian precision,
the journalist, the photographer, the artist, the poet,
all the same, looking at things
and through things,
sucking in the random clamor of life
through irises as irresistible as black holes.

I see light in darkness,
and darkness in light:

a circle of tiny dancers
breaking free from a Victorian yoni,
a beautiful woman
who is dead,
a grown person
attempting to break back into the womb of the earth,
a dancing still life,
so full of death and chaos that it can't sit still,
the light and dark of angels,
who sometimes save us,
who sometimes harvest us like wheat.

I'm here, and I watch, and I watch, and I watch.
Making reports for back home,
wherever that may be.

I have felt welcomed here,
but I have never felt at home.

—Carson Reed, March 2010