Selfie, selfie, selfie, selfie.
My fingers enjoying the morning and the mocha.
My thighs — with mojito and sea azure.
My eyes flirtatious, as if I’ve found my one and only.
I turn around, supposedly innocent,
At the sound of familiar footsteps,
Just so both my face and the curve of my behind show.
Me — in the elevator mirror, dressed up for work.
Me — in the office mirror, dressed up for lunch.
Me — in the lunch mirror, dressed up for autumn.
Me — climbing an epic Armenian mountain.
Me — caressing a homeless little dog.
Me — winking with lavish cleavage.
Me — supposedly lost in an ancient city,
So innocently, like a forget-me-not
Growing on the wall of the Virgin Mary chapel.
Me — enjoying the evening and white wine.
Me — presenting my look with a Brodsky volume.
Me — ordering something sweet,
Sweetie, don’t you have some sugarfree sweet?
Me — supposedly tired, melancholic, and hopeless,
as if this waiting has lasted so long,
that the climax will reach Penelope
before Odysseus does.
But me — I’m a bomb, and I
look like a bomb, even when depressed.
Me.
When I marvel at myself
from a selfie angle,
as if it’s someone else marveling me.
