Gregor Samsa Redux
I do not recognize the body
watching me. I pull up
my boxers and pretend I could
wear high-waisted pants, as if
the telltale bulge wasn't there.
What am I if not a clay doll
in the oven? A mockery
of a man.
I can only glare back through
the windowpane and
pretend my eye contact
still has worth. When I step
outside, the first moment
is a migraine. My eyes maladjusted
to the thin atmosphere. Meteorologists
call this light pollution because they do
not understand how a skyline could
be dysphoric. The stars, stripped
away by runny ochre paint, will
turn into dust specks &
we will squint harder
towards the sky. &
the ceramic mannequins
will rejoice at their lack
of eyes. & I will find another
inanimacy to be jealous of.
One day I will learn how to be.
But not soon.