X-Rays



By: Julia Riesman
Something, even in daylight, always hides
under three shifting cups face-down, there we
can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.
 
With blood-red cow carcass, each shelf is lined
in this grocery aisle mortuary—
something, even in daylight, always hides.
 
A light bulb bursts on a carnival ride,
same fate as my left eye capillary;
can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.
 
In the shadow cast by his tune, the pied
piper hinted at coal mine canary.
Something, even in daylight, always hides.
 
How was she to know, now a draped deer hide,
that hunting season's not January:
can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.
 
Apricot pits, within, house cyanide
in the jars of an apothecary;
Something, even in daylight, always hides—
can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.
 
Julia Riesman is 16 and lives in Brookline, Massachussetts.