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dead mirrors

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dead mirrors become photographs.
you thought you were safe biting your lip,
opening up your legs like a baby chicken
learning to walk.
your breath fogs up the glass as you speak words
you never learned in church,
you listened to the preacher with a thump thump thump in your make-boys-want-to-talk-to-you place.
buttons of your polo are welded bolts.

dead mirrors become photographs.
haul them to the dump so mom can't see,
the foil melts like a book that dips its foot in a stream.
you take out your compact at the park,
the mirror dies, traps a bird in the air
that might as well have been a stone
tossed
and
falling



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