SNAPPING A SELFIE

by heidi seaborn

 

 

I would like to say something to the woman

I’ve known since I was that red-haired girl.

I only borrowed this smile for the day. I know

it’s a little worn, torn at the seams. You see, I

hardly know what to do with myself, but lipstick helps.

Paint my mouth like a bed of zinnias—orange,

hot pink, fire red & pretend I’m summer.

I’ll invite everyone I know over and we’ll jump

in the pool, splash around in my blue eyes.

In a blink, we are all smoking cigarettes behind

the vending machine & dropping dimes for soda pops.

I have a sinking feeling that this moment

is already gone where the extinct

animals go to get catalogued, a flash

in the pan like the Aerocar or the hydrogen bomb

or gold nail polish. All that glimmers is what

keeps me up at night. But last night was a blur.

Isn’t it always that way when you wake up and look

in the mirror at who you were yesterday?

Some days, it’s best to stay in bed way past

when the robins have gone.

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