Girl and Her Mirror
Amy Parkes
I
Made of mirrors
and the eyes
of every damned boy she cradled
in my thighs. Bruiseblack
and not cowhide.
Made of a bare lightbulb
and its halo. Made of her blood
under my mother’s
fingernails.
Made of my father’s fond
hand on her ass promising
men like this kind of fat.
A whip made
on the new frontier,
made at the
borderline
between her
and me.
A whip made of my skin
from the festering bite
of her black dog.
II
I feel like I am always standing outside of myself.
—I’m going to add to that sentence: You are always standing outside of yourself, holding
a whip.
How do I let go of the girl with the whip?
—You don’t.
44
Cauldron Anthology