The Mirror on the Ceiling
I took it down two years ago, but he still comes knocking.
There was too much space in him.
I gave him everything on the outside –
The long curve of my spine; arms, feet, thighs.
He was the actor and director of his own imagination,
Dying for every exterior. The moving
Crown of my head was the rising star in his heaven.
Never whole and never alone, I got to wanting it
Without the sight of it. No show, no reflection –
Not even in his eyes, which were so outside of himself,
So beside himself, so down on every last cell of himself –
I craved for nothing but blind discretion.
He stands on my doorstep, pleading his lost barbiturate,
But the mirror is in the outhouse. I promise cobwebs, whitewash.