Sandy Longhorn

Possession

being nine-tenths of the law,
I patrol the borders of my territory
under the mirror’s watchful eye,
noting microscopic changes with precision,
believing this map will be my ticket
to love or salvation,
                   whatever’s coming next.
The X-marks-the-spot is my secret weapon,
the thing that I withhold when I pen
each day’s new data on the vellum – 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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