Self-Portrait as Psychology

after two paintings by Soheila Sokhanvari

The straps on my shoes make an X across my feet.
My eyes snap open and shut like a purse. Plink plink.

The way we depart from ourselves when the moon comes out.
The way a cat shows its claws when picked up and held.

If this is the slow kind of hell, I’m used to it—
My hands are folded the wrong way, the cat sits on the bed

Like a limpet, the sun drops out of the sky, inexorable
As a chandelier earring. I don’t believe in forgiveness

Or holding hands or the kind of people who keep treasured
Figurines. Sometimes the truth is impossible as a bodice

Spilling over with boobs, it just can’t be contained.
What do you have to do to get arrested around here?

The pictures on the wall look back with no pity. Sometimes
The truth is as unpalatable as a stain. Even the cactus

Judges me from its corner, arms raised like it’s giving up.