Marisa Clark
Image by Alex Hu from Pixabay
Marisa P. Clark is a queer writer whose prose and poetry appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter, Rust + Moth, Texas Review, Folio, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her creative nonfiction among its Notable Essays. A fiction reader for New England Review, she hails from the South and lives in the Southwest with three parrots, two dogs, and whatever wildlife and strays stop to visit.
A Simple Transposition Makes Egocentric Geocentric
Why say sunrise?
Why say sunset?
The sun’s fixed fire
neither comes up
nor goes down. Night
doesn’t fall. It’s we
who spin around
eternally centering
ourselves. If we need
a body to orbit us,
we have the moon,
always whole and always
full, if not always
sunlit-thus-visible
to the naked, needy I.
Say dawn and dusk.
Say daybreak, eventide.
Notice, in twilight, the line
we call horizon reveals
another lie: The sky’s not
limited to blue. Say dayspring.
Say gloaming.
Say first or fading
light. A simple change
in point of view
can right the way
we look at life.
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