Clarity

I’ve been avoiding the center of the glass,

only checking the chin for a red-rimmed pore

or the place where the skin starts to sag.

I sprayed the blue liquid and wiped it away

with a crumpled page of the Tuesday news.

The ink left gray streaks,

dull smears of headlines and local deaths

across the reflection of my throat.

Now I can see the bridge of my nose

without the white constellations

of dried toothpaste.

It’s worse, somehow,

being this clear.