Trompe L’oeil

by Christine Adams Beckett

Our image, bent and distorted – stuffed
into a convex mirror we purchased
on the Parisian streets of our adopted home –
is a funhouse version of ourselves propped

In a real-world museum, where art
and artifice harkened back to a
grammar school skill: landscape drawing
with a vanishing point, indoctrinating

The youngest students of life to pave
imagined paths to an invisible,
inconceivable possibility. Un oeil de sorcière,
the eye of the witch, sees us smaller than

We are, a necromancer’s attempt to
squeeze us all into an oval, molded frame.
We’ve missed so much obscured in shadows
at our feet, Grace hidden in all that we

Ignored at the curb. Truth is a near-sighted
vision, learn what one will,
prepare as one may, for which one feels
grateful rather than blessed. We are not small.

We are here, today, as ourselves,
ignoring regret and hope, remembering
that objects in the rear view
are larger than they appear.