Jewel Anderson The sky’s white mirror makes a feast of me— eyes first, then teeth, then pulse. I open my mouth and she swallows the sound. The light bends wrong tonight. I step into it and it steps back. My shadow clings and flakes like psoriasis. The shine is a trick, a white worm. It crawls the length of my arm, makes veins into rivers, rivers into ropes. I told the doctor I was cured. He smiled, yellow crescent, and asked who was speaking. My mouth is a traitor— The tide l