Vanishing Point


I dragged an eyedropper tool over my iris in photoshop. It picked up colours bile and polar bear tongue. The eye’s most important task is blurring. Right now is a ravine. I leap over without ever seeing it. A gap attracts itself. If I draw faces they’ll slightly adhere to the contours of my own face. Or the general idea of what a face is. I can’t seem to get an uncontaminated likeness. I spent years tonguing my wisdom teeth, staring up at a surveillance camera. I’m more afraid of black magnifying tubes on surgeons’ glasses than surgery. In an anaesthetic lapse, they’re oversized pupils, vacuums that will empty the patient out. I hijacked a plane full of people who are useful on airplanes. How long do brain surgeons go to school. I’m more afraid of oxygen masks dormant overhead than flying. Waking up during surgery is more common than any of us can remember. Which do you most resemble: a witness protection programme or the neighbourhood watch.


Josephine Keys lives in Wellington, and studied English at Victoria University. She attended the IIML’s Iowa poetry workshop in 2018.