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 --
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
mouth downturned, brows depressed
in veiled fascination.