Sandy Longhorn

Self-portrait: August

This then is the mirror I face daily:
full-length with beveled edge,
                              waiting.
In the lampís light, I chart the contours
of my body, trace the rivers of my veins
and the lined skinís uneven terrain,
a necessary navigation. 
                              Possession
being nine-tenths of the law,
I patrol the borders of my territory
under the mirrorís watchful eye,
noting microscopic changes with precision,
believing this map will be my ticket
to love or salvation,
                   whateverís coming next.
The X-marks-the-spot is my secret weapon,
the thing that I withhold when I pen
each dayís new data on the vellum Ė slick
and opal-colored, darker where my hands
gather the ungainly edges in and fold them over
and over the same creases the mirror reflects.   

 

 

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