I can’t stand the way
I watch the mirror.
I abhor the way I adore
myself, watch the specks
in my eyes glimmer
lust-green tide blue
like glitter, get closer
& examine every fleck,
pour narrative
into my brain, gooey
with self-absorption.

I want to be ugly,
pockmarked & roughshod,
but even this, conceit:
the Swan in his splendor
forsakes his gift, clips
his wings, prostrates himself
upon Lilly pads,
demands sympathy of toads
who eye him with lethargic
fast-food comas.
A privileged child
who breaks his toys
before the poor.

I am not a Swan, but I
can twist myself into
believing that I am,
for a minute or two,
for a flight or two,
for a sunset or six,
before I tumble & ask
beautiful women
to twist me back,
tell me my feathers
are white, neck long,
movement graceful.

For a while I discard
the first person.
Strike it down, crush
it underfoot, under toe,
press it through
ashen sewer grates.
Passivity seeps like tar
but a subject discarded
grabs & pulls the strings
from the dark wings
of a theatre. The phantom
resurfaces, tears his mask,
rushes to the nearest pond
to sing praises to his skin.

I can’t stand the way I watch
you for signs, tics, smiles,
licks, winks to tell me
I’m as pretty as the naked
moon, who glowers, alone,
pulls tides & gazes
from the fetid Earth,
cratered & luminous.
Maybe I’ll smash all mirrors
I encounter: so that Narcissus
recoils in terror & shrinks
back into the river
from which he came.

Narcissus by Caravaggio