CALL ME BELOVED

Maybe mirrors were a mistake –
one should not be able to peer
through pupils, into darkness,
clenching fists around a toothbrush
daring reflections to flinch, apologize,
looking for that faint, visible pulse
beating through the diaphragm –
does it move, too? Is this all true?
Last night you woke up crying, a smile
turning up the corner of your face –
there’s no smirk in the mirror.
Who knows what Narcissus saw.
Who can tell which reflection
looked back, a voice from the black
that can burn a soul down to petals