There Are Certain Facts

Katherine Gibbel

about the pond—its scum
or the unmade bed in my haste

to see it this morning. My brother
sends a snap of his contoured

face, made up in a familiar
algae color bathroom 1,002

miles away. As a child I
watched my belly disappear

below the tub’s meniscus
now outside, now inside.

My head, my body’s aft,
confused and dry, watching what

is what was and continues to be.
I imagine my brother

with cotton pads dragging
green shadows from his eyes.