Self-portrait with bronze medal, with babies breath,
with compunction, with complimentary gift basket.
Self-portrait as architect of yes
courting architect of no, with clear confusion,
with rabbit warren. Self-portrait with red fox Monday,
with blue fox Tuesday, with diurnal craze.
Self-portrait in mixed light,
with voluptuaries, with glitter fluttering
my solar plexus, with three bodies in one.
Self-portrait overdoing it all. Self-portrait
as already home, as Budweiser with Roseanne,
with wood-paneled room, without irony.
Self-portrait with tremor, with spilled box
of arrowheads on the corkboard past.
Self-portrait with old personage, without regrets,
with tumescent spring, with longing.
Self-portrait as bold with longing, with own arm
throwing Faulkner across the room.
Self-portrait reading women instead.
Self-portrait with ghosts in the new estate,
with singing, with horror films, with tequila anesthetic.
Self-portrait collecting years with the sea
in fresh memory and brackish spirit. Self-portrait
disappeared as salt, but with this index.
ON NOT NEEDING TOWERS TO ERECT HATE
Last night I hated you in your peasant clothes
And bathroom haircut eating whipped brie and blueberries
with the verve of a dead battery.
I needed you awake or covered in snow, shuffling
the way you do from kitchen to bedroom
With cold water in a tumbler. To love that about you
but hate the edges of your mouth caterwauling
In the neighborhood past bedtime resting above
the volumes I’ll dare to say. Lover, you fell asleep
While the bloody halfmoon set under my eye.
Amber Galeo is a writer and human rights advocate based in Brooklyn, NY. She holds an M.F.A. in Poetry and an M.A. in Human Rights from Columbia University, and her poetry and social criticism have appeared in Guernica, The Missouri Review, Prairie Schooner, and Women Arts Quarterly and more.