When you’re on the screen

When you’re on the screen

I thought I was a mermaid

with an overgrown tail and black eyes.

Your fingers, a sea of mirrors,

slit my body apart. I felt like a snail

full of anxiety, desiring to taste

your laughter, your thighs

from which windstorms of urgencies spring,

to tangled gannets in my mouth.

But this glass sun, this virtual camera  

of anguish does not live of seaweed

or salt. It walks away from the sea

to grovel in the reality

of you temporary nakedness.