Amorphous Me

by Naomi Beth Wakan

I am a creature lacking edges;

my boundaries are ill-marked,

so I confuse myself easily

with others’ wealth and fame,

with others’ beauty spots.

In moments of euphoria

at small successes, I

threaten to disappear

in that thin line that borders

sea and sky, and,

in fits of melancholy

at a rejected haiku,

I curl up tight inside

the closest cloud.

At such times, only

the promising plum blossom

and the neighbour’s ginger cat

sitting on our front-door mat

peering insightfully in

through the glass pane

restore me to solidity.

From And After 80, by Naomi Beth Wakan, Toronto: Bevalia Press, 2013, page 98.