The Mirror on the Celling
I took it down two years ago, but
he still comes knocking.
There was too much space in
him.
I gave him everything on the
outside-
The long curve of my spine:
arms, feet, thighs.
He was the actor and director of
his own imagination,
Dying for every exterior. The
moving
Crown of my head was the rising
star in his heaven.
Never whole and never alone, I
got to wanting it
Without the sight of it. No show,
no reflection-
Not even in his eyes, which were
so outside of himself-
Si beside himself, so down on
every last cell of himself-
I craved for nothing but blind
discretion.
He stands on my doorstep,
pleading his lost barbiturate,
But the mirror is in the
outhouse. I promise cobwebs,
whitewash.
