In the mirror there is a girl who I
sometimes do not recognize. How her face
is less a blank canvas than a
dead television screen,
her body less a temple than an
excuse for writing poetry.
Fingers burning with words
searching for new places to settle.
A place to call home is always welcome,
even for a fortnight.
Yesterday morning some monster came
and took my own body from me.
Pulled its fingers down my lungs
and squeezed
until my heart was a fire alarm
and I do not mean the kind they build
at campfires.
This is the kind that comes unannounced
in the evening
and burns an entire forest overnight.
You will hear about it in the morning news.
And again when I look into the
mirror I think not for the
first time,
how can such love and fury
co-exist in such a small body.
How one half is a museum,
the other half a graveyard.
