When they are thirteen, all boys want to be invisible.
The physicists tell us ninety percent of the universe is invisible.
Should it not occur to us that since the greatest part of our lives
is lived in our minds, we too are ninety percent invisible?
When we watch the willow branches stirred by the wind,
when we watch the cumulus clouds billow in the wind,
when we watch the paper kite strain the string in the wind,
three times we ponder the invisible.
Of all the incredible things about my cat Hector,
the most incredible is how he sees the invisible.
Except when it is reflecting something else, glass,
the most miraculous of materials, so too the most
metaphorical, is naturally visibly invisible.
And then there is godmother death, her gray hair,
her false teeth, her cane, whom we know from birth,
so familiar to us she is all but invisible.
J.R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines and anthologies since the early 70s. He is author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions) and coauthor of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books).