In parts, in a bleached mirror,
I hide behind the rusty patches
that life ain’t so beautiful
when relations rend.
I see my eyes disillusioned, my nose bashed,
my heart pierced, my mouth anemic.
Lines of painful sadness slither in my face –
the wild blue of the blue mimosa
that bloomed in the front yard of my father’s house
years ago when I was a kid; now
the tree has long been gone. All I can see in its place
is a barren front. Splinters,
just a few splinters – if I may find of it.
Oh hell, how the fire of that cold winter
charred my interior!
True! I’ve got a boil on the butt.