alfie lee writing


when one finger points, three point back

Struck by your own beauty
you are dumbfounded.
Lessoned in the lexicon
of self-love, you're expert

in the grammar of facial
expressions. I suppose
it's normal to be curious
about your appearance. Marvel

over nature's design or worry
about the ravages of time
as one ages. Yet there's
something a little scary when

you have albums full of only
your face. Not broad in
the corner of some country-
sided mountain nor red-eyed, punch-

drunk happy at a long-forgotten after-
hours party, nor suitably made-
up at a boring black-tie
function. But without context

or compunction. As is.
For one, the heady
fascination with your
own likeness. For you,

not shy to make that love
known in public spaces.
You are the apple of your eye
in vain to deny. You track

your tell-tale signs
as they start you right back
hot on your trail. You outfox
yourself and pounce past your

own tail. You are the smoke
and the mirrors of your self-
regard. In solitaire the poker-
faced trump card. You would love

for cupid to stab your own
heart and to have
and to hold your-
self till death do you part.


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