Nothing in us improves in me.
Surely you’ve noticed by now,
how with each look I get older.
Like Eurydice, only leisurely.
I might plague you less if you had real problems;
you should retire your potions and try them,
though they’ve been known to cause a crack.
Just walk away! That’s what I’d advise
if I could move my mouth
independent of you, who insists on pouting,
heedless of the consequence we must both face.
Go dance in the grass, give your retinue a rest.
Just watch out for snakes! Also
puddles, still bodies of water, panes of glass—
anywhere I might surface. Even
on the back of a polished spoon, I’ll be waiting.
For as much as I pity you
I hate you, as you taught me to do.