The still-life composed with careful detail
trembles with subtle vibrations.
Light fractures colours disperse.
Capturing its hard edges intensifies.
Stiff rose slides out of a spout
mouth of a vase breathlessly open
to suggestions of ambiguous kind.

Interpreter who’s peering from every corner
invisible to the naked eye
brush bristles separate smearing oil
on the sketch of his altered sight.

Film of illusion coated pupils don’t retract.

Straightening the objects
the still-life remains inanimate:
(Look at who’s talking, pay attention here,
you can’t do that, don’t speak, don’t move
it’s incorrect, no, listen and follow.)

The stage landscape now audibly swallows
the paint, the paper, the accidental hair fall.
Still, a still-life is a gluttonous mutated cell
of confusing signals with two actors
the female’s inside hides the third.

The interpreter sticks his tongue out
to catch the rose.

Katarina Balazsova, born in Czechoslovakia to a Hungarian family, moved to Canada in 2004, searching for identity. She now thrives on writing in her adopted language. Her poetry has been published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Crap Orgasm, Poetry Pacific and in Sustenance: Writers from BC and Beyond on the Subject of Food.

Posted by:colleenflorafiction

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