Away from the cruel magnification
of a shaving mirror, I clean up well.
I am content with orange teeth and salty
skin, with having borrowed my beauty
from the ocean. See my kelpy eyes, the pearl
on my tongue? Flatter me, flatterer! I still care
about dignity, like a blindfolded duke
being led to the gallows. It’s hard not to smile
when you have so little—brainholes from memories
happily burnt away, little bags of pills still
tucked away in mattress coils. Flatten me,
flattener! Can you imagine me singing
from the top of a minaret like a singing
flag? Me blowing away sin like an eyelash?
Sometimes I almost think I could. Listen
for the silences under my words, then
translate them into touch. Snakes sample
the air before moving into it, but men lack
this luxury. Every place I put my body
threatens to pinch it open. Safety depends
on what we consider home: a house, a mouth,
a honeycomb. I am a means to an end, all
chisel mark and dusty rock. Behold
the absence of grief on my face, the drizzle
of sun in my beard like bees stepping
through gunpowder. Bite into my skin
and behold the blood. It appears so swiftly, so
certain, like it was waiting there all along.