The Blood Bowl

Tonight, Mister, I remember your dead-snake-stare.

A sting, a bite, a gaping-red paper-cut:

Now I think I see you when I look in the mirror.

Your frown fed your hate in the chilly black air.

The look from a beggar should not do me so, but

Tonight, Mister, I remember your dead-snake-stare.

Your red eyes, the snot-beads, your brown pit of fear,

Seethed scathing, all, into my own pink gut.

Now I think I see you when I look in the mirror.

The vacuum in your gaze set me in a snare:

How hatred and disgust can un-jar self-smut.

Tonight, Mister, I remember your dead-snake-stare.

And you, homeless, boneless, sleeping under the stair,

While I, a princess, call my own stone-castle a hut.

Now I think I see you when I look in the mirror.

My, my, homeless-stranger-sir: you've quite a glare.

How you must really think me a rich-bitch-nut.

Tonight, Mister, I remember your dead-snake-stare,

And now I think I see you when I look in the mirror.

-Bridget Lowe, 2003