My paranoia speaks to me:
If you can’t tell me you bought
a nice shirt, what else are you
hiding? I walked outside

this morning to see crows
perched on power lines.
It’s the middle of winter
and this hemisphere is

supposed to be birdless.
And I read surveillance is
on the rise, that I should shine
my flashlight in the rooms

of AirBnBs and seek
a strange reflection.
But I can’t stop looking
at myself in the mirror.

I’m manufactured– hair
gelled, clothes pressed.
In the reflected light I
can’t find myself, just

a strange reflection.

(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)