By Marjorie Lotfi Gill
At first, he sees nothing but a circle, darkness
made visible, a line that breaks and joins,
like the one condensation etches along the bottom
of his pint glass, that surfaces and remains
due to changes in time and temperature.
But then the form takes shape, the nose
of his grandfather emerges, his mother’s cowlick,
that old great-aunt’s mistaken scowl, still harbouring
her furies, so that he’s looking at himself, and knows why
the lines don’t meet, the exact circumference of the circle.