Square of Beveled Glass
I can’t be tender.
On my left face, in bathroom light,
a climbing-rope of flesh, next
to a seam. Its knife-sharp sister
cut in clay on the right. The two
bracket a frown. Beads edge
my scalp––more rope inside the skin.
Eyes deep, under dark smears.
Tongue thrust out, a gargoyle joke.
Don’t wag that sick thing.
For once, I can’t see
regrets night tosses up.
Only a face-shaped question mark.