Framing Device
Mirror-split and splayed, my face asks her face
if she is liked enough, if her likeness is liked enough
and any answer burbles back and forth. There is static
on the line. There is salt in the wound. When we lose one
likeness to some slack in translation, more bloom
in serial. I love myself on the internet, my selves
poised and brightly lit: reminder alarm set
for the golden hour. How golden is enough when filtered
out of our own recycled sludge, the seconds sloughed off—
trashed to afterlife. The babble of my body, my content rising
from my own many-faced choir.