The Breathing Mirror

I am a bottle, diagnosed,

A vacancy in glass that you address. 

You’ve caught me shining, the

Child of convergence, a consequence,

A meeting.

Such knives of light are not my own

Yet I throw, I throw. Do not poke

Holes in my generosity. I court

The corner of your eyes, I strike 

You with your own flesh long neglected.

Do not prod the hungry.

I’ve grown into a jeweled chameleon, a face of 

Two starved caves that crave your spoon

Cradling the fat lump of gestures, of cues. 

I eat scenery. I eat the atmosphere. 

Memory cares not what it swallows.

My panes, pleated and aligned, 

Are inestimable. It is your ideals, 

Your inflections that heat my sides.

I ooze and dry,

Angular, deliberate. 

My lips, my selves curl

In this skin of situations, this

Gown you gave to me. Transparent,

Flaking like dreams.

The lie forks. Do I satisfy?

Do I lack? Pattern rots to prophecy.

You turn your back.

I spring a leak – 

Something has cracked. 




© 2017 BENJAMIN SMITH