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Reflections
by: Emily Wong
He pulls back the covers a bit
exposing the bare flesh
of my left arm and shoulder
to the cool night air.
You’re bony, he says,
running his hand down
the length of my torso
and over the protruding bones
of my hips.
Good, I reply
and turn on my side
away from him.
It’s too cold to stand outside
and smoke cigarettes
in the winter.
Smoking is a nasty habit,
my father used to say
when referring to his mother-in-law
who always had a cigarette
in one hand
and a gin and tonic
in the other.
Sometimes I sit on the floor
of my apartment
in front of the sliding glass door
criss-cross, applesauce,
hands in my lap,
smiling at the squirrel
chewing a hole
in another strand of Christmas lights
on the balcony.
And sometimes I stand
in front of the mirror
eyes shut tight,
trying to imagine
the truth.
Seeing is believing,
he tells me
encircling me with his arms.
I open my eyes
and blink.
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