she refrains from looking at mirrors too much;
well, mirrors were
too honest for her taste.
they do not let her enjoy the
preambles of the local sun and the sweet flicking of words,
although through shallow rivers they arrive,
as part and parcel of what it is to be normal,
impaled in the sweet belonging even etched
just above the false eyelashes of dawn.
you can see. you can hear.
the loud footsteps treading
that makes the multitudes celebrate went on
(even though it disturbed them, secretly).
it was a good summer; notoriously she
roofed from lip to lip like the stray cigarette that she is,
and she enjoyed the taste of each, and learned to love
the dryness that eventually came when she was left
on the ashtray to dry. and another would pick her up,
and like a self-repairing system she is but a cell
holding on to existence, even as her wasting away
is evident in the ashes left in her wake.
i have tasted the sea — and seas are mirrors
and i’ve learned from my mother how not to be afraid
of mirrors for they
are nothing but a medium for reflections,
and reflections are almost always fake.
but it seems, these days, the quicksilver may catch up;
she seems proud (finally).
the rivers borrow shallow words,
and lakes borrow rivers, too.
but there is not a bigger mirror than the ocean,
and her face was there: in the cold, cold blue.
— A. P.