After Tracy K. Smith
I blame tomorrow, as I blame all the ways a body can die. I stalk  
an empty set in my underwear, scrape my face into masks, play  
to the pills—place-holders for ache, small mimes muttering  
under my tongue. It’s a performance to wow  
heaven above, that spoof-eyed shadow. I don’t know anymore  
who I’m covering for, recovering for. My role was never  
clear—the director just wanted to be blown. Audiences prefer persona  
over animus. Enemy animals. Mortal clones. Tonight,  
I skinny-dip depths finned with sharks, pretend you’re a star  
far above me, scream. Throat the dark, the deep. No one watches 
as the water slips past my teeth, the frenzied dance.          
No one helps to hold my hair. The shore’s too far away to care.  
I blame tomorrow, as I blame all the days a body can lie.  
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