instructions for gazing

i.

Don’t look at me in mirrors.

ii.

Ever since I was young I’ve had a mouth

made to amaze. Mama said don’t name the things that come out of you. I peel back

the skin of the red delicious. Swallow the

core dutifully. Spit out the pit of the sukkari

date. I weep. I weep. I weep.

iii.

The idea of your spine stringing every part of your body together is good enough

to justify everything else. Your vanilla fudge

bones have as much calcium as jellyfish.

Is that what you call tact?

iv.

Roll together in buttery turpitude. Share

the bed like two bashful teenage boys.

v.

A no longer holy woman rolls down your woolen tights— go on, she says. Hum the invocation through your teeth.

Your lord is not displeased. I tell her not to look at mirrors. The hereafter will serve you better.  I tell her not to look at me.

vi.

The artificial light makes the supermarket

floor appear milk-ish. A feline urge to lap

at it with your tongue overcomes you.

The great golden tangles through your

bird-nested mane. Kisses flow through your internal, spill out as thumb-tracing and murmur.

vii.

Hell chokes with the humid air of a veil draped over the face. Don’t look at my hair.

Don’t make me out of clay. Blow the soul

into me. My father never invited me into

his study— he drank cans of lime soda

and grunted like an animal. What does that make me? Don’t look at me in mirrors. Just don’t look.

viii.

Body made of rose-skin collides with a

large, jagged piece of metal. What a waste of the years it took to maintain. Grip the blade of the sword. Drink broth. Grip the handlebars and pedal away. Your vanity melts into silverfish and lace bugs. What did I say?

ix.

Don’t look at me

in mirrors. You’re the one

who put me there