self portrait where i don’t say anything i mean

By Joanna Acevedo

he drags his thumb over the roof of my mouth to get me to shut up. you talk too much,
he says, and then not at all.
nobody’s perfect, i tell him. certainly not me. he’s a poker player, he should know better than to consider'
me a singular object.
besides, when i talk, moths fly from my lips. i’m like a lighthouse. it’s tiresome.
falling in love is like saying goodbye to yourself. i bid my goodbyes, slipped out of my body like a seal,
slid into the ocean of his appraisal. i let myself be an item, to be won or lost, found or gained.
he put me in his pocket and takes me out when it rains.
i need you to be lucky at the same time as me, in a cycle, he says. he’s obsessed with luck.
i’ve never been a rabbit’s foot. more like the whole rabbit—easily startled,
big eyes full of mischief. open your mouth when i tell you to, he says.
i’ve never been good at listening to directions.
i make wisecracks. moths fly out, big and white.
what did i just say? do you want to burn this town to its ashes?
he holds my wrists in his hands to get me to shut up.
on winning and winning games, i know nothing. on loving and loving men,
i know even less.
but then he wins. royal flush. full house. that’s my girl, he says. i don’t know what i did
except cross my fingers and wish real hard. i bask in warm whiskey, warm smiles.
a moth perches on my tongue, ready for flight.