line-of-sight from my pillow to the bedroom door
the left bedknob was a dull sun (the right a moon
pitted with meteor-strikes and black-sea’d age)
I would brace my milk teeth there to loosen them
and roll my tongue in its sharp and yellow taste
before my breath had misted the surface to matt
I would squint at the big reflection of my eye
thinking it’s an iris-monster from another planet
and searching the limits of my alien bedroom
bent and far and shining in its weird convexity
then one day I thought I was no longer a kid
and turned languid in the early evening shadow
I hung my first black brassiere catty-cornered
by the strap and pretended I was oh so French
Gold trophy winner
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