Every day I watch myself dying
In front of the mirror,
I feel as though I am in Nabokov’s Laura
Devouring myself alive
But I have eaten this way
Since eighth grade: grammar school
I watched myself dying
Line by Line and
Watching Eating Marching
In the nettle of it
I missed the day
I turned into a swan
I only know I became a swan
Because others once told me so:
You were swanning through the halls
Not knowing I was absent that day —
And still—
So busy with my vigil.