Once, you told me

I could be ugly,

when I wanted—

 

hair dismal-

damp, mournful—

mouth a dark

 

nook under 

a tree where 

creatures hide:

 

night badgers,

crickets, the bat-

eared fox.

 

You said I

could be

dreadful—

 

angry fistful

of thorns stripped

from the stems

 

of roses— 

the red and green 

flowing from 

 

the gutted belly 

of a fish—or a squirrel's 

swollen form, frozen-

 

fallen from a tree,

seething with worms

white as rice.

 

Black nights

know my name.

When you say it,

 

you hear candles

being snuffed. I want 

to be as those wisps

 

of smoke—

but to want

is not to have,

 

and what I have

is only my likeness

in the mirror.

 

So I could 

be gone if you 

wanted— 

 

the way you wash 

the day’s salt 

off your hands:

 

flesh slick

with water, turned

transparent silk.