SO SLIGHT AND PALE

by Daniel Bishop

She says, 
         I am a minority now,
which is to say that once she was not 
         had not yet become
or what she had been has ceased to be

and the spirit of the past follows you
the spirit too 
of where you are headed
      but you do not know it 
    
                                  haunting you like 
Georgia O'Keefe's voice on the radio
      like cactus needles 
      sticking in your socks --

pale and thin as your grandfather 
      or his beard, 
                    and ubiquitous 
as the mess he left on the sink 
   after a shave
         — pricking now at your toes

                         so slight and pale
                    so nearly translucent
               you cannot find them all 
                 or remove just enough

it seems a shame 
to discard a decent pair of socks 
        a shame too 
        to bury them deep in your dresser 
        to be found 
on some other October night 
when the last thing you’ll want 
         is to remember. 

AUTHOR
Daniel Bishop is a writer of prose, poetry, and music. He is a member of the Albuquerque Writer’s Workshop. His work has been featured on NPR’s Songs We Love and in Prometheus Dreaming. He lives in Corrales, NM, where he gets his hands dirty working with semi-precious stones and silver.