Hard Shine

The box sat on the table,

a gift, perfectly formed.

So black, so smooth,

it held the overhead light

in a single, hard point.

And when I bent close,

my face swam there,

distorted and long,

like I was drowning

in its flawless surface.

It smelled of chemicals,

of something made

to resist, to repel.

Not the honest grain

of wood, not the give

of real things.

Just a cold, unyielding

perfection.

Nothing to break through.

Nothing to hold onto.