Landscape By Marguerite Guzman Bouvard

The dimensions are dizzying; peaks
unraveling the sky, light sheer

as rock unbroken by leaves or shrubs
or the humble shadows of the passerby.

In this wilderness, I must invent
my own markers, a way of describing

distances only my body knows.
I’m like the first settlers who tried to stake out

a plot in rampant space: nights,
the frail structure of our belief crumbles.

And yet you look at me and see a woman
like any other; you don’t see

the landscape of illness, the cliffs
within myself I scale each day.


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