THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR

 

The Woman in the MirrorMy face is a bruised plum, split and shining with rot,
yet I rattle inside a house of gilt and roses
where the wallpaper bleeds, “I have been her kind,”
in crimson script that drips onto the parquet.
All night I claw the mattress, thighs raw from kicking,
a live woman soldered inside the porcelain ribs,
the air thick with the sulfur stink of an unstruck match
that waits, trembling, between my teeth.Needle and ThreadTake this sorrow—here, it’s still warm,
a freshly skinned rat pulsing in my throat.
In the dream, black bees with abdomens of molten gold
stitch my lips together, thread yanked from arteries
that spurt like red silk across the sheets.
Deep in my chest a thief in a ski mask of shadow
pries the moon from the sky, stuffs its cold coin
under my tongue where it burns like a communion ice;
she is busy, so busy, pickpocketing tomorrow
just to keep this ruined heart beating.The Last CommunionNow I am going to be oh so sensible—
death, you lean in wearing a nightgown yellowed with old sweat,
your mouth tasting of pennies and attic dust.
I crawl between your sheets carrying every suicide
like brittle poppies crushed in a childhood diary.
The stars above us snap shut, white gloves over my eyes,
and I laugh yes, yes, take me any way you wish—
I have slept in barns ankle-deep in rat turds,
I have galloped the black horse of my body
through fields of broken glass, hooves sparking,
until its ribs burst open like red doors
and I tumble, laughing, into your ordinary, hungry arms.