self-portrait as twilight

(because it’s marbled, not because it’s beautiful)

i sprawl in the crack between before-

sunrise and after-sunset, laying amongst stacks

of twilit clocks and tucks behind the ear. no matter

how many times you turn ‘round with your face tipped
heavenward, you can’t seem to find a moon. so it must be

tucked behind that dark sheet of blue construction paper,
you figure—if you look closely enough, you should be

able to find the seam, the fold. then as pitch dark seeps in, with
twilight cracking, i tell the speckled stars, stop, you're making

me bleed, the brittle bits that the clocks have strewn
across my surface in generous handfuls, harsh tosses.

and as i lay there, with sharp breaths ticking, i stop every now
and then to pick up the clocks, shattered nonetheless.

and when a beam of twilight pierces them—a colorful sinew
stretching to white foam—all i can do is pull out

the fresh innards of the clocks i have yet to touch:
lunchables, borax-activated slime, the trashy twilight series.

and as i lighten, i dim,
and as i dim,
i’m burdened.