top of page
MORNING
​
It is 7am and I am trying to fix my face.
At its edges, hair
winds into disobedient inchworms.
​
Beneath the eyes, dark circles
reveal the suffering of an insomniac.
​
Behind lips, big teeth --
overbearing mother-in-laws,
who butt in at every opportunity.
​
On the nose, freckles persist --
an ant colony whose foot soldiers
rise again and again
through the clean of the surface
despite all efforts at eradication.
Who invented the mirror, I do not know.
But I am Narcissus, bent to my own reflection,
reading it each morning
with the grimace with which one reads
bad fiction;
​
mouth downturned, brows depressed
in veiled fascination.
​
bottom of page