I.

Before the only unbroken mirror, cobalt kimono
undone, embroidered sea at my feet: I’m the self-portrait of my father.

Eyes deep as ravines, night-lined ribcage,
even the rage is his,

this dusk between both of me.

II.

In a hour colored tourmaline, I mistake your guitar
for a body in sleep and smash you into effigy,

splinter your way back into my skin.

With silk-wrapped fists, I shadowbox your incessant reflection
and break myself back open.