mirror store

there must be an easier version
of my teeth. less jagged & crammed
in the mouth of a whisperer. a less frantic scalp.
the mirror store is empty of anyone else
but me. all the vessels gulping down
legs & light. when i text you what i usually
mean to say is, "do you still want 
to know me?" i always think of distance
in paper. the paper ceiling & the paper mirror.
we used to live in a paper apartment.
how did we not catch fire? at the mirror store
i try on so many shapes. the clerk is invisible
& he suggests i try not taking up
so much space. i expand & contract 
like a fist underwater. there are mirrors made
for fish & mirrors made for lovers & mirrors made
to make you love yourself. my favorites
& the hazy ones. the ones that make me question,
"is that really me?" is that really you? time moves
in a way so that, if we saw each other
in a crowded room, we might not notice 
each other. my aunt is dying & i haven't visited.
she doesn't know who anyone is & i know
for certain i will confuse her. a gender 
in a coin toss. i have a dream that she will
mistake me for my father. i look like him
when he was young. i am only slightly shorter
than him. i do not go & inside take 
a really cheap mirror home. i don't know
what i want to do with it. a part of me believes
it is not a vessel but a portal. there are 
all kinds of folk magic traditions where
mirrors act like this. i do not know yet
what or who i would want to come through.
the calendar lays itself out like a pill organizer.
i call my aunt & no one picks up. 
i wrap the mirror in towels, afraid of
this fresh threshold. i delete a text to you. 
somewhere, the old bathroom we used to kiss in
is burning loud & fast.