Howard Firkin
He lies there, curled up like a moon; the moon—
the other mirror—Narcissus immobile,
planted. The light shines on his skin’s meniscus
like the shadow of a petal, pollen on
a stamen, like the glance he never shares.
He’s waiting for her call, the call he will
not answer pointedly, determinedly,
half knowing it’s a call she will not make.
He lies. He’s curled. He’s white, immobile like
a painted moon, a shadow on the stairs.

Immobilized, his mind is free to ask,
a childhood dream of bottled wishes, one thing:
Oh genie of the ring, perform this task:
a reflex action, make her call me. Ring.