medicine cabinet vacation
there was an ice rink on my face
where i stored all my solutions.
mirror, a sister prayer book, taught me
how to be asymetrical. a little more
to the right. tilting the room
so all the water rolls down.
i always check inside. use the box cutter.
use my natural sense of poor direction.
deploy a lexicon of verbs that all mean
"to decay." to spoil. to fester. to
wither. whether or not you agree
there is going to be a cure, someone
will drink a cup of purple
with their eyes closed & think
"finally." a bandaide with
no wound beneath it. the texture
of burned skin. teaching the shower
how to make veils. needle pricking
the thumb. i could have been
a scientist. i could have taken
one train to the other side of the glass
& sat there for weeks feeling employable.
crossed my legs & un-crossed them.
have you ever asked the moon
for advice? i do that to every
medicine cabinet i meet. i say
"hello there, how should
live a less fractured life?"
& they always say, "why would
you want to do that?" it's a lesson
in folding the paper before
you tear it. i search for phone books
just to cross out my name.
no. that's not me. there's no such thing
as another. sleeping. i am
sleeping on a shelf. beautiful & blurred.
a bird in my hand. it is not
morning or night. it is vacation
& i am waiting for my body
to come back to me.