print previewback SIMON SHIEH
Self-Portrait
The hair of the living no different
than the hair of the dead.
He writes poems in the sky with twigs
of burning rosemary. What I have
that he doesn’t: a face.
I forgive myself—
floating on the surface
of the water face up as my shadow
sinks to the bottom. Sweet boy
you will be good at nothing.
When he blows a kiss toward the camera, snowflakes
billow from his lips. Night cowboy.
Snow hour. To shake a garden snake
from a pile of dead leaves and branches,
to think I have finally found myself
beneath all this skin.
Should the wind be wild—
paraphrase, rebuild.
The opposite of a clock hanging on the wall,
a crucifixion.
I found him naked, spread eagle on the bed.
But I was filming, so he was gentle.
In his hands, the camera lens was a puddle of rainwater
in the desert. This year, no snow.
This year, he pulls a bouquet
of lilies out of his car, throws them on the concrete.
They shatter like stained glass.
As he sleeps, I search his face
for resemblance,
but it is as I feared—ripples only,
the occasional wave. 
exercise in keeping it all in
Self-Portrait