What Say You, Invisibility?
I see you - with my
stigma corrected twenty-twenty vision
and through my tortoise shell rims -
Though I doubt you see me.
No one does, though I fail to comprehend Why.
Noise is everywhere. On and off key. At a high and low pitch.
Ready or not - senses overload, interior monologues ramble. News
stream forecasts of flooding rain, gunshots, and excessive winds – upwards of 70 miles
per hour - while dark, upper floor windows block views
but not targets.
Bulls-eyes. Everywhere.
Right-hand fingers apply cheap commissary red lip gloss – animal byproducts allowed –
and then remove all signs of color – blushes of pink, hues of rose - with old tissues saved
for untimely though certain tears. Flood waters recede, though never evaporate.
Left-hand fingers fold and tuck translucent tissue in an interior coat pocket. Single ply
and single stitched. The television room streams foreign film subtitles that flash
too quickly. And lives that move too fast. Activate Netflix scans for an English version
removed a week prior. Dark brown eyes focus in a room full of strangers.
Artificial laughs. Guards pace up and down dreary cinderblock cell halls.
Counting bodies, not people.
Cell phones trapped in two by four lockers. Voicemails full of unsolicited business loans and home mailboxes overflowing with circulars from off-brand stores. My mind wanders, but there’s nowhere to focus and no one who sees.
What say you, Invisibility? Is it game over? Checkmate. You win. Or I am the wiser one?
The one who now understands what it means to be (un)seen. Despite my impending freedom.
Oh, powerful one – Invisibility. You are omni-present and cunning. With me you’ve shared
your wisdom. The poison that is the truth. It’s never been my dark shades, the clothes on my back, or the words on my tongue.
Invisibility is made of time. Memories, half-truths, false-truths, and the daily grind. Months in confinement, moments from release. Invisible all the same.
Release day – an anticlimactic moment comprised of unhinged locks, a pair of tokens, and a pat on the back. A day like any other. Once invisible. Always invisible.
Bus door clicks open.
Pairs of legs ascend steps.
Tokens drop dead weight.
I see you - with my
stigma corrected twenty-twenty vision
and through my tortoise shell rims -
Though I doubt you see me.
No one does, though I fail to comprehend Why.
Noise is everywhere. On and off key. At a high and low pitch.
Ready or not - senses overload, interior monologues ramble. News
stream forecasts of flooding rain, gunshots, and excessive winds – upwards of 70 miles
per hour - while dark, upper floor windows block views
but not targets.
Bulls-eyes. Everywhere.
Right-hand fingers apply cheap commissary red lip gloss – animal byproducts allowed –
and then remove all signs of color – blushes of pink, hues of rose - with old tissues saved
for untimely though certain tears. Flood waters recede, though never evaporate.
Left-hand fingers fold and tuck translucent tissue in an interior coat pocket. Single ply
and single stitched. The television room streams foreign film subtitles that flash
too quickly. And lives that move too fast. Activate Netflix scans for an English version
removed a week prior. Dark brown eyes focus in a room full of strangers.
Artificial laughs. Guards pace up and down dreary cinderblock cell halls.
Counting bodies, not people.
Cell phones trapped in two by four lockers. Voicemails full of unsolicited business loans and home mailboxes overflowing with circulars from off-brand stores. My mind wanders, but there’s nowhere to focus and no one who sees.
What say you, Invisibility? Is it game over? Checkmate. You win. Or I am the wiser one?
The one who now understands what it means to be (un)seen. Despite my impending freedom.
Oh, powerful one – Invisibility. You are omni-present and cunning. With me you’ve shared
your wisdom. The poison that is the truth. It’s never been my dark shades, the clothes on my back, or the words on my tongue.
Invisibility is made of time. Memories, half-truths, false-truths, and the daily grind. Months in confinement, moments from release. Invisible all the same.
Release day – an anticlimactic moment comprised of unhinged locks, a pair of tokens, and a pat on the back. A day like any other. Once invisible. Always invisible.
Bus door clicks open.
Pairs of legs ascend steps.
Tokens drop dead weight.
Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. She lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Philadelphia. Recent work appears in The Popular Culture Studies Journal, The New Verse News, Zingara Poetry Review, Streetlight Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, LSE Review of Books, and other literary and scholarly journals.