Self Portrait on My Birthday
J.O. Winberry

A large black lens frames the frame of her face and there, in that silvery medium,
my face frames the dark lens. Spots on the glass like stars, like the whole damn solar system,
cloud in the background, the foreground, and everywhere else. Consistent, timed.

Rotating head on a spick with a smile cut out. You can see inside and through --
like a Christmas ornament, shiny and happy and hanging. The neck spins up with joy,
utilitarian pride. She pours your heart out smooth. Drink some, you know you want to.

Back to the glossy point of interest. Gold flecks grab the neck and swivel focus
blurring the holes behind her eyes, stark and soulless but for two tiny flecks of color:
a bright yellow house dangles in one, a sun glints and spins around in the other.