Framing Device

Mirror-split and splayed, my face asks her face

if she is liked enough, if her likeness is liked enough

and any answer burbles back and forth. There is static

on the line. There is salt in the wound. When we lose one

likeness to some slack in translation, more bloom

in serial. I love myself on the internet, my selves

poised and brightly lit: reminder alarm set

for the golden hour. How golden is enough when filtered

out of our own recycled sludge, the seconds sloughed off—

trashed to afterlife. The babble of my body, my content rising

from my own many-faced choir.