cabrera

Inferior-Mirage

Caroline Cabrera

Turn me loose on a square of sky. Give me a quiver
of fractal bodies. At dusk I cannot see you

through the creatures in my own eyes.
The Sahara has its red dust and I have a cobweb

of distractions, a webbing of salty dew. At most
you are a mirror for me. Rather, I put a mirror between us—

I see what I can of my reflection,
you see the mirror’s dull backing.

I cannot arrive for you, but the ensuing darkness
makes me calmer, kinder. I know you are more

than a hand on my hip. My signature move is sleep.
You ask for one kiss, I give you peaches,

the sweetest in the bushel. I ask you if you know
the troubles of crossing state lines with produce.

Caroline Cabrera is the author of The Bicycle Year (H_NGM_N Books, 2015), Flood Bloom (H_NGM_N Books, 2013), and the chapbook Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press, 2012). She lives in Denver.

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