Jennifer Durnall '24
and her leering eyes, for a moment, for a split in time,
Eyes, that had once shivered to the vibration,
of a thumping diesel engine, Eyes,
that were suffocated by time,
Fired off from the fizzle of a dynamite stick,
twisting knots of nerve cells and blood vessels
in soft tissue, come undone.
She could see me, and she would know who I am.
But that was it. Suddenly,
the swarming disease encapsulated its headquarters.
Each pale knob of her finger,
cunning to the bone,
robotically, curled to a ball once again.
She stared through me like staring through the
frosted glass of a window
on a snowy, Sunday morning,
squinting, seeing only a reflection in her eyes,
“Who am I?”