Golder

Trash-metal shears

balancedin your grubby, dirt-riddled fingers,

trying tocut offyour loathsome curls.

Here, copper-water mixes with mascara like

a thin elixirof glamor in

defeat, daring always

to remove itself.(You are made

of a materialthat never dulls, perhaps

deafens—trust that all the small,

benevolentimpulses add up

in the brokecalculator

of this,your ownbecoming).

There’s a wet,unrecognizable mess

here: tear offthe dress like

tissue paper wrappings. Shower steam

clingsto the mirror, swims with

regrets in the sinkof tepid

reconciliations. A softening

married to athrob, a threat of

something more, and all the

many sensationsof

playing deadend here. All the extra

partsfall to the ground, land like

foldsin a silken robe. Now,

a velveteen debutfor what you have

produced, for whatyou have

alwaysknown yourself

tobe.