The Ballad of Narcissism

The sound of the bristles of the comb
ripping through your tangled hair
shhhrrrpppttt, shhhrrrpppttt
like bark being ripped from a tree
or thousands of pieces of paper
being torn in half at once.
It’s enough to make me go deaf.

Then the subtle popping noise
as you pump the wand of your mascara
in and out of its rounded base
fffffwop, fffffwop
the liquidy blackness a congealed mess on the brush
as you drag it around on your eyelashes

Next is the scraping of your nail file
as you whittle down the jagged ends
of your long nails, painted with fuschia
sstthhhhht, sstthhhhht
like sandpaper to wood, only more pitiful

You conclude with a muted pant
as you gape at yourself in the mirror,
applying eyeliner, mouth hanging wide open
as if you couldn’t possibly draw a straight line otherwise.
hhhhaahhhh, hhhaahhhh
your breath fogs up the mirror rhythmically, like a pulse.

I’m used to this discordant symphony by now
as I listen with impatience from outside the bathroom door
waiting and waiting, as you serve as the conductor
to the concerto of your vanity.


- LAP etc.

Wandering Harmonies

I

Those ragged people on the sidewalks
silently braving the London chill
reaching desperately for each passerby
trying to thrust some sort of flyer into
every outstretched hand are ignored by
everyone. Except you, who meets their eye
with a sympathetic smile, as you say
“No, thank you,” and, surprised to be addressed
they draw back, nod, startled by the kindness.
It was Tuesday, and you were walking me to class.



II

The watch on your left wrist doesn’t work.
It died months ago, and now it is always
six seconds to midnight on New Years.
What better time, you say?
Its presence has branded your arm, so when you
remove it, it remains as a thickened line of white
against the tan of your skin. Even in the winter,
when sunshine has long been drained from your body,
the faint paleness is there, obstinate, resilient.



III

It was the biggest snowstorm in twenty years, they said.
A very first for some of the children, who ran about
so gingerly, so as not to cause the precious new whiteness to
melt before its time. They shut down the Tube, stranding you
in Hextable and me in Kings Cross. Schools closed for the day,
roads were blocked off. I laughed and laughed, for the snow
amassed two inches at best, and it was gone the next morning.
You still owe me a snowball fight.



IV

I can’t keep a steady enough hand to get the picture right.
The pencil meanders around the page like a lost poet, and then
screeches to a halt, its wayward marks an eyesore against the
fresh white paper in my sketchbook. The pillars in the church
look more like a rickety old staircase, the kind in my
Grandmother’s house, that moans and sighs as you take each step.
I frown, strangle the pencil like a noose, and scratch a huge X into
the page, so hard the point tears through the paper like butter.
I pull the page out of the book, crumple it, leave it in the
dusty corner of the pews. You stifle a laugh, and I stampede
away from you, bruised, insulted. Weeks later, I find that
crumpled drawing in the pocket of your coat.



V

There’s a South African sunset in your smile
and Grecian skies in the whites of your eyes.
Then that blue of your gaze, like Corfu’s seashores.
You shake the sand from Cape Town out of your hair
and let the breeze from Brighton push it out of your face
as the sun swerves through the open window, lighting you up
like a Tuscan star. I peer down at our intertwined hands, and
see the dirt and grime of New York City underneath my fingernails.



VI

If you were planning on me being forgettable,
then, for your sake, I hope I am. Tuck me away like
an old diary, and don’t bother to date the entries. Let it
lie, like all the dead letters whose destination never
welcomed them and that can’t be returned to their sender.
Unread and lost in a dusty bin, soon to become ashes
among other stories that will remain untold, unembraced,
alone. The smell of burnt letters thickens the air so that even
God cannot breathe. You’re a glacier on the sand, and I’m
just a wishful thinker. We dug each other’s graves but, oh, we
made them feel like home. So I’ll think myself sick, as my pen
tries to stall what I know will now take place. Without you,
this city can’t smile, only bear its teeth. Every road I
cross whispers of the loss. Sometimes, peace of mind
isn’t worth the goodbye.



VII

I checked every grocery store in New York, but none
have Jaffa Cakes. I settle for the bland, discounted cookies
moping next to the crackers. Five hours ahead of me already,
I envision you enjoying one, as you check the time on your
watch, grin, and send a single snowflake my way, a fleeting
striking whiteness amidst the grey sidewalks I traverse,
hands in my empty pockets.


VIII

May the Earth always lay its gentle hands upon your head,
and may science and reason steer clear of your timeless heart,
unlike the way it ravaged my own. And, the one task I live to fulfill,
if I dare attempt it – To not let you let me go.



- LAP etc.

And the Funniest Part About It Is

I swear, some divine afflatus
came down on me that night, and I could do no wrong.
“I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle
I will outshine them all.”
Chugging gasoline, having sex on broken glass.
Don't tell me you didn’t want to,
you’re worse at lying than you are at dancing.
I’m a crazy balloon, the kind without string.
Flitting, flying, finagling, and you can’t catch me, oh no
at least not without your shoes. But I made you take those off
and tossed them from the overpass. Thud, thud. One two.
How different your stride is now!
Listen.
No, stop talking. Can you hear that?
Footsteps, they kept on walking without you.
See? They didn’t need you after all!
You can’t really blame them, because you scuffed them to death
Of course they’d want to get away.
Now every divot in the concrete claws at the soles of your feet
like a broken clothes hanger. What goes around comes around.
You can thank me later, when you're in bed and swollen
and the dye from your wet jeans has bled onto your thighs
making you look blue and bruised.
You always wanted to feel that way, you said.
I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off
in your car, as we drive underwater.
That'll get your blood flowing, mark my words.



- LAP etc.

Thrice Crowned Queen of the Night

There’s a full moon out tonight
and I hold it between my teeth.
I command the midnight breeze
to hold every single strand of hair
out of my face.

The slick sidewalk surface reflects each step
until two of me walk in unison
one commanding the streets above
and the other seizing those underground.
I keep my pace.

My eyes shine like two round opals
I laugh, and stars fall to the ground.
I twirl the planets on my fingertips
as the sun throbs in my back pocket,
my little friend.

You try to keep up, but can only
hang onto the hem of my dress for
dear life, as I split the air in two.
Your fingernails tear at me, but you
cannot apprehend.

I exhale fog and mist, and each droplet
catches the light like a prism, as I confer with
its spectrums and make a rainbow.
Its arch nestles into the curve of my back
and it walks with me.

Don’t look too closely, for it’ll blind you
when you see the nimbus of my smile.
Come morning, it will fade, as daylight
threads through my bones. But nightfall is mine.
You’ll see, you’ll see.




- LAP etc.