SInk

You give in to the memory
Of the memory. How when we didn’t have playboy or porn
Back in 1996, we had our memory to replay
The woman at the British Council Library
Who in that curvy green dress, stormed
My senses, never to let go.

She made the grass on the third eye
Turn into a fiery wildfire. How beautiful
When your memories molest you, letting your instinct take over,
Gazing at that selfie-stick that lengthens,
To keep that smile, afloat, like flotsam, that keeps you going.
There’s nothing remotely Botox about
The feel of your fingers on a selfie stick.

And that recording device still keeps
Track of so many memories of a graceful gender
Gracing the tips of my desire-brimmed wonderland,
As I gaze through the porthole of yesteryear
To disembark to the sheer spontaneity of a smile
That can never bloom in pretense or depreciation.

The most-natural selfies of men unstifled in smile,
Aren’t they clicked in front of the bathroom sink?

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