poem to the mirror
by Tyler Tsay
today, my doctor
prescribes numbness.
i excel. hands melting
on the open stove
& not a sound
with it. i am staring
at a pillar of salt or
myself in the mirror,
look too long
& begin to believe
in magic. the illusion
of a replay button,
replay pills falling
down the throat
like vcr – black silt
skin spilling over
itself in reverse
forgetting to
press play. july 4th
& i am storm
breaking on horizon
if storm means
dad’s cancer if breaking
means my mind.
people setting
fireworks off in
the streets, a paint-
scape of steel
& spark in the air.
another set of teeth
in my unsteady lips.
pressing together
thin as a wrist
over glass.
his finger on
my shoulder,
close enough to
my throat.
how after, i knelt
on the motel floor
for twelve days
like shakyamuni.
starvation an almost
surgery, hunger
as more life left
to live. i slept. i woke
drowning in flesh
or him &
like a knife,
bloodless or too
much blood, i never
know. only know
his shuddering weight,
daughter i will
never have.
if numb enough,
i dream. i see myself
as horizon
in the mirror.
too vast
& unreachable
by everyone
in the world.
Originally published in Assaracus (Sibling Rivalry Press, July/August 2016)