mirror; cold plate of dressed meat,

my long form fiction. if it weren’t

for the love of a wet shave

i would never set eyes on you

to give an inch to your distortion.

the trick of me; the gimmickry

of reflection. who falls for this

frame of truth? only my bed knows

my body & its name. i lie there

in dark’s mouth stretched into

its swallow, hid under the lid

of something kept from you.

my bed is my wife. she’ll have

no glass in the room. we celebrate

the deafness of mirrors & mock

what you mock; the religion of movies

& their over-lit make-up rooms.