Matt MacFarland

Self-Portrait: Robert Cornelius, 1839

Too little of me remains in place.
Shy as lips behind a wrist, the photograph’s
eyes meeting mine seems an endeavor

at best, heretical at worst, this
lifelikeness from a lifeless thing
that is me: a bay leaf pressed

for a watermark, a veil lifted
for a hardened stare, right hand
jacket-tucked and discerning a pulse.

It makes me a tourist of seasons.
It says, Call me to your hushed
moments of snowfall, your embers

and tea leaves and cards, that I might know you.
We will learn a common vernacular.
We will make of this window a world.

Matt MacFarland has been a finalist for prizes from New Issues Press and Nimrod International Journal. His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, december, Third Coast, Grist, Memorious, Fugue, Mid-American Review and elsewhere. He lives in Charlottesville, VA.