April Littrell
Mirror
A mirror with fixtures fixed askew
invites accidental self-admiration
or abominable trips into the abyss.
One’s own passerby, a single self
certain to question the singularity of
their soul upon a small sip of reflection.
When consciousness whets the tongue
twas dry from the hydrating licks
of internal love, mealy feelings
gyrate and tumble quips of sparkly
personal acknowledgment like soft
sand into glass into sequins into
surprisingly sultry patterns of shimmers
one wears on the skin like a
lacquer of bravery in the ability
to conquer a customized you.