Briefly
I knew him for a couple of years
Briefly
He dated a friend of a friend
But I knew him before then
Briefly
He would smile, mostly
In passing
He would speak, sometimes
And was funny
At least I think.
Remembering is hard
I never knew him that well
In the end
Didn’t say goodbye when I left
It wouldn’t matter.
I’d see him in a couple of months
And then it was his funeral.
And I missed it.
He was a year older than me
Or he would be if he were still here
I guess I’m older than him now
When the Mirror Breaks
Prologue
I broke every mirror in that house
Not with my fist
But with my smile
Gap-toothed and yellowed from bad habits
And missiles
Mistakes we made in the dark, come through
On my skin
Dinners and desserts protrude boldly forward
Shameless abandon
I’m left behind, I’m left unnoticed
In the fractions of glass.
And no, I won’t think of generations of members past
Or thank God for the weight of my breath
I will break every reflection I pass
The water, the glass, and my mother.
The Opera House
I will break my mother at the opera house
At the opera house where she bought a pair of pointe shoes
that didn’t fit me
And that I forced myself into anyways
They pinched my toes, but I pranced in front of my mother
Aren’t they pretty? Aren’t I pretty?
She smiled passively, absent-mindedly, as if she had something better to watch
Somewhere better to be
Puberty (Munch) 1894
And then I came across the empty space,
I stopped and gazed at the painting dawned upon the wall.
I saw myself in the frame.
A naked young girl, sitting on a bed’s edge, nervously clutching her knees, protecting her modesty
A large and ominous black figure looming behind her.
I did the normal thing to do whenever staring at a picture of a naked woman, I compared the size of our thighs and breasts. And then walked away with some kind of dignity
But it’s also true that I saw myself in her,
This unnamed muse. On display for everyone. Her blueness and nakedness, in contrast with the brilliant colours wandering about the room.
Beach
Then at the beach, where my fingers turned white because of the cold sea, she insisted on smearing that pale, thick cream onto my back and legs and arms, and anywhere that might burn under the sun. I’m white enough, I thought. The tan bodies of women and girls decorate the beach and taunt me. When I take off my shorts, bending down and inspecting my thighs for any hair accidentally left unshaven, she watches. I step back, clothes crumpled and discarded on the sand, and shield my eyes from the sun. I miss when I could strip down to my bikini at the beach, unaware of onlookers, with a belly full of food, before the stretch marks and cellulite came. Or perhaps they were always there, the only thing that has changed has been my perception of them. “I’ve got to fatten you up!”, she laughs lightly. She means no harm; it must be a compliment. It’s a good thing, I suppose.