Self-Portrait of a Mirror
Before me, a lady runs a comb
through her hair, a bun of beauty;
she draws closer to me
& I, too, draw closer to her face.
She stretches her knuckle to kick her
face off my face:
like a pothole, she cracks my face &
blood punctuates her knuckle. Through
my bruised face, I see how her face is
a pair of glasses shattering into tiny
tissue papers on her bathroom floor &
those tissues, too, stir at my face.
Ifeoluwa Ayandele studied English at the University of Lagos, Nigeria. His poetry has appeared in Burning House Press, Neologism Poetry Journal, Kin Poetry Journal, Kalahari Review, Tuck Magazine, Brittle Paper, and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria and tweets @IAyandele.