I put my self in a bottle
where it grows pale
and hairless, swimming
in its milk of formaldehyde.
There’s not a lot
of wiggle-room but
it is exceptionally well-preserved.
Every once in a while
it catches my eye from the display case,
as it pushes round against the glass
and my face floats into view.
Against a silver-backed mirror
a sliver. Unkempt. On the cusp.
About to bad. Face full of seams
and spots. Invisible stress. Arch
like an eyebrow but reflections of the light
in my pupils. Rash and quick
to scratch. Of late numb
and snip. The bus stops here
except when it doesn’t.
Vertebrae on a string
of spine. My head’s on a stick.
A handful of harebells offered
by a faery. I am tightly stitched.
Body by trickery. But under our fingers
on the psychograph it was my spirit
that wrote, “Oh, don’t.”