The mirror yields its bumper crop of sport.
Banknote-nosed and blindfolded we sink,
then scrape like fat kids round a skating rink,
guided “left, stop, up a bit, now snort!”
The birthday party fades. I teleport.
A line of pregnant wombs hangs in the air.
Everyone I know’s a blob of frogspawn
that breaks itself off, springing here and there
like a healthy heated chunk of popcorn,
and then returns home. Brushing my womanly hair
in eighteen-nineties France, I hear a foghorn
blasting through my Art Nouveau boudoir:
“Yes! Yes! We reincarnate! And everywhere
we go, we meet our ancient friends! Hurrah!”
