Before Mirrors
1 Minute Read Time
or chrome or canals in the desert,
there was a man who looked like you
and a woman who looked like me,
their faces unknown to themselves.
In a house of hair, on the night
of their wedding, they undress,
cast their robes like beetles
shedding, the beginning of skin,
the beginning of breaking.
He holds her by the waist,
touches her neck, then
her shoulder, not knowing
where to look. She takes
his hand, runs a finger
along his jaw,
like braille,
a word, a sentence, a drop
of light in a silver cave, its bent rays
reaching out, as if searching
for itself.
Read more from Issue 19.2.
