Blame the Lighter

My left ear thrums every time my heart beats;
a kind of pulsing, that dullness you get
when you stretch and the world shorts
for a moment before your arms return
to your sides, much lighter. It’s a reminder
that I am my body’s mind; the bright
inside the bulb.

I light up,
pull pieces of matter and electricity
from creases in my brand-new mattress
to the porch and buzz with the flies
to the flame. No one ever taught me
how to smoke; something about the space
between my browbone and my mouth
fumbles the ask.

I’d rather die
than be embarrassed so I ask my mom
if the thunder in my eardrum will
kill me before this cigarillo does.
What I really mean is: am I important?
I lick whipped cream off a cold pancake
for the same reason, and to quietly soothe
my lanterned throat.

I’m not really
even my body’s mind; not light or glass.
You could call me wires, or the hand
on the switch. Either way, I’m standing
on the balcony, back to where my reflection
superimposes itself on every passing impulse.
The lights are on inside, but I’m out there,
shivering and coughing.

Decoupage

My walls are papered
with people I’ve captured unawares.
I cut out pictures of eyes disembodied
from faces, and faces so embodied
I feel compelled to keep looking

until our gazes meet like headlights
in the rearview mirror. I drive
so deeply into the image, I can
picture myself.

I am sitting on an air
mattress, legs criss-crossed
as if I might fold in upon them
until I am less than a millimeter
thick.

Were I able, I would
soften my edges with glue and paste
them, crinkled and bubbled, beside
the hundreds of pupils blown wide.

If they blink, it’s done in synchrony
with my own, and I find I haven’t
the heart to ask if they can see
without being looked at.

October 14, 2025