I’ve seen her fragmented,
with pupils swollen, overfilling to black,
not mourning the absence of color.

My neck tilts—revealing 
her skull to be a collection of shards.
Yet, always her mouth curls up,
the corners pointed to satisfaction.

Tonight, the moon strikes her.
Rotted prisms bark back at me.
I peel along my damaged skin,
scraping the imperfection,
hoping my blood gives her new life.

Battered hands grip my sunken cheeks,
holding the feeling of rageful wax.
I notice then her teeth cracking;
admired pearls become an eye sore,
pained urgency ripening our weakness.

I’ve always wondered if there’s truth to our meetings.
When my fingers dip into the pool of darkened glass,
rippling my reflection.

After “Iago’s Mirror,” Fred Wilson, c. 2009

– Jay Grummel