TR Brady



forget touching the mirror—forget touching its hands,
those floating dead layers—wave reflection
off—groom the personal—ready for the shower,
but forget touching the mirror—even if the steam
slicks it—even if you like what you see—what
would your mother think if you left your sweaty
little prints all over the bathroom—forget admiring
the body's flushing cheeks—forget finger painting
forget panting forget dancing forget tracing your red
abdomen forget histrionic flexing—forget touching
the prints of flowers, with their Latin names,
nailed to the stucco—listen, no nailing the body
to relaxation—no toweling the mirror's squeaking
skin—no skinnying the body—no bellying
the plastic curtain, transparencing your problems
no tuning the showerhead to pressure wash
your hips—no drain digging for your ex's hair,
even if you're standing in a puddle—even if you
like it