Plating

The toaster sits on the counter at midnight,

shining like a mirror I didn't ask to see.

I took the dishcloth and rubbed at a smudge

until the metal began to burn under my hand.

My face is pulled long in the curve of the side,

eyes like dark smears, forehead stretching away.

I am polishing the silver off of the brass,

trying to find a version of myself that isn't

warped by the shape of the things I own.