Under Construction @ Keele 2018 Vol. IV (II) | Page 45

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ii
I don’t talk to mirrors –
The short haircut she copied – a reflection,
A narcissism.
Great in/sight as the camera eye reproduces images.
She’s a cloud outside my window.
Brushing my hair, moisturising the crackling scent
Of dis-tended skin.
A death of some sorts.
Just
to be loved
during peri-natal exercises.
My landscape isn’t a fiction.
Illusory disseminations of shithouse women
Shackled like glue.
Running out of space.
Draw.
Colour in.
Condemn.
iii
She sees herself in me.
In cropped hair –
Those tiny blackened shoots that overpower
a dyed past.