My reflection tells me my eyes are gray,
hues of Midwestern landscapes, suicides,
reminds me of the Medusa everyone sees
when they look at me, stay away.
Lean closer, spot pinholes of green
hidden between the furls, science tells me
it’s just chromosomes, but the green tells
me about all the burning in me they’ve
experienced. Embers, not envy.
The gray tells a story about a man who will
carry me up flights of stairs when my ankle
is broken. A man who does not anger or argue,
a sheep in Buddha’s clothing. Lean closer.
The green is whispering about the failed
engagement from before the sheep, a long
story involving a Navy sailor and too much effort.
pinpoint center of the self, says my lips, they
carry all the spite. Life-experience tells me every
forty-five seconds a woman is fucked over by
another man who denies investment. The green
turns everything I see into stone.