The girl is the one who does not recognize
her own face in the glass until too late,
until long after the voice — call it God,
call it Freud — has pointed to that other shape (less fair,
less winning soft) and instructed her desire.
She thinks her eyes have always flinched away
or paused, bewildered, disappointed, when the mirror
finds her and cannot recall lingering there
dumb with love. When they walk together
along the street, he presents his firm profile
to remind her: He for God only, she
for God in him, his eyes fixed on what is ahead –
a crowded sidewalk, a movie screen, the future.
Of course he loves her. She’s the most talented girl yet
to wrap her mouth around his cock, and he can teach her
things: the names of the animals. But she is the one
who walks awry, her whole body dipping towards him,
irresistibly drawn to the flesh and bones
of her making, as if she wants to be turned back
into a rib, allowed to rise and fall
beside the others, protected above his heart, forever.
-Lisa Sewell
