And a reflective pose
What I am is not a part of any grammar, reckoning, or dictum. I might fit into a book a well-read virgin wrote or read, or gave to a friend he was forced into knowing by his own shyness or by the friend’s gravity. It is like that, with friends, like the first colony of our species to placate the ground with our feet and not our hands, while the yowing of tall-toothed cats shrieked nearby and our grandmothers great beyond understanding, not drunken yet, howled back. I am not bare under my clothes, I am worn, like an old tunic someone scuttled from the depths and wrang out dry. And I wasn’t the first to curse the mirror, with its wagging tongue that never did learn how to turn pink and attractive. Sometimes, when I place my mouth on the floor, and kick it away, and when it makes a sound how my organs make sucking themselves tiny when company walks by, I feel a little mirror, then two, grow out of my forearms. Staring there, I wonder how a bomb victim feels, then I wonder how he ever felt at all. Maybe like a great oak with no real conversation and no real need of it, sore as it is for closer company.