XVIII

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 laps its same sentences against my teeth.

I scramble up, anxious to find foothold

lest my toe dip into searching waters.

I pass a puddle. The moon repeats herself.

A thin film of oil colors the reflection—

I bend to touch, and the liquid

splits clean around my finger.

She feeds me light, spoon after spoon

until my teeth glow through my cheeks.

The room brightens.

No, darkens.

No, silly me, I’ve closed my eyes again.