Narcissus in Texas
by A.E. Abitz
So your first love was that rapt double
with sienna-flaked eyes and smoke-scraped
compulsions, but he was of the mind
you couldn’t rise to his logos—
you remember something of a swell
of darkness, sheets like a wet rope
to your throat, though oddly, not the vast indigo
sky—O how his voice would spout on—
when did you notice he was mirror-mad,
apathetic? Before his sallow fingernails turned,
sunk into your neck? The two of you
a Greek parody—no, you
do remember the moon that night
you cheated on him—
a small win, even if you lied
as you left him the next morning,
the full yellow sun
finally ripping you open.