Howard Firkin
Preserved as I was broken: wings awry;
my legs a spastic cross-hatching, a scrawl;
my abdomen and thorax curve: a small,
eternal question mark of pain. Dead fly.
You wear me on a chain around your neck.
I’m unaware in here of anything.
I don’t know if you look at me for more
than any morning’s careless making sure
of lipstick, blush, mascara, wedding ring;
the five sec. cursory perfection check.

You take me off at night. I’m not aware.
You place me on the table by your bed
and welcome this day’s lover to his share.
Preserved as I was broken, like I said.