Sonnet: The Seventh Day Adventist
by John Kendall Hawkins
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There have been times when I have felt like a lost ghost
in my own life, blasted from being, found lurching,
moving like a shadow from door to door, searching
for the right offering, an arrangement or toast
to a gesture only I would know, were I real
in some dear memory, a wisp that stays a while
and fades, an after-image fractal of her smile,
silence in a scene that conjures The Seventh Seal.
In the reflections of the reflections on a bus
moving through ripe fields of wheat and corn, I can see
in the mirror to mirror slip I may not be
real, as I would like to be, but superfluous.
What if I open the door and the kimchi's corn?
Shall I let myself in, road-weary, Jason Bourne?
