“omniscience as a mirror”
in the art museum, my favorite exhibit is the furniture,
art that was built only for function,
& most of all, the mirrors.
what flamboyant arrogance to have mirrors in an art museum.
still, i pass through them, or seek to, in my own cockedsure way—
the bees loose in my gut rustle at the thought
of staring long enough into this mirror that someone
will stare back—they try to convince me that nobody’s there,
but i know they’re wrong—the fingerprints are proof enough,
from a hand that once wasn’t decaying.
the plaque reads that this dresser is made from mahogany, ebony,
oak, mirrored glass, gilded bronze, leather, & brass. the plaque reads
that the dresser is french, from 1805. i think about her, some beautiful
french duchess who was born, lived, & died long before i was an embryo.
she leaned forward once, touched the cloud of her neck,
fixed dust fuzz from the glass between her forefinger & thumb
& flung it as far from her as she could. i am in danger of falling in love
with her—what else is new when it comes to me & imaginary women?
no one would be surprised if i died here, waiting to be kissed by a spirit.
it’s very me. i read a vice headline once
inside an underground women’s mud wrestling ring in chicago
& laughed at how unironically i would enjoy watching.
i won’t tell my duchess this, partly because there is too much context
that i can’t give her, but also so she will not realize just how vulgar i can get.
she deserves better than me, mud-caked & baggy-eyed,
but i don’t want her to know that.
i—wing of ceiling fan, supple jellyfish, waveform—shake
when i pull her from the mirror, bring her into this world
like a ring loosed from the thumb. we will nestle
against the museum’s one monet, pretend to listen to frank ocean,
& maybe, once or even twice, laugh. i’ll tell her they call me
a jawline prophecy, that’s what i’ll tell her, that everyone says
i have a jaw that could cut glass, sexy, right?, & she won’t understand
because she only speaks french.
& she’ll turn to the painting, as is the custom in a museum,
& its colors—aquatic greens, damp reds, a purplish-blue so fine
you could smear it, & i will, to make the painting an imitation
of its old self—call that a remix. o damp lamplight
leaking from the ceiling, pray for me, i need a tether stronger
than the nipple hardening in the mouth.
my duchess, you have to go back! don’t try to stay
because the longer i sit here, the less in love with you i will be,
that is purely scientific.
she guides herself back through the frame with little goodbye.
she does not try to stay.
the mirror is now just a mirror, the mirror
is not a portal, the mirror is a reflective surface,
i am looking into the mirror & see only the dust
floating between my face & my other face.
i am looking into the mirror & see only myself.
Gabrielle Grace Hogan
Gabrielle Grace Hogan is a poet from St. Louis, Missouri. Her work can be found in Sonora Review, Lavender Review, Ghost City Review, Arcturus, and others. She is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Texas in Austin. She gets sad sometimes, but that's okay.
Twitter: @gabrielleghogan