If your hands are made of glass, like mine
use them to stir martinis
in coffee mugs at dark.
Then lick off bitter, dripping delights,
an olive on each fingertip.
If your legs are made of glass, like mine
men won't see them
when you walk.
Goodbye, whistleblowers who
call out your own callous insecurity,
a misogynist towards your own limbs.
If your brain is made of glass, like mine
just sit back and watch
as your body relaxes.
Those small journeys
from thought to thought a speciality;
witness even short passageways
in clear magnificence.
If your nails are made of glass, like mine
they'll shatter from overuse—
you'll be unabled.
Flip pages with care against
sharpening paper daggers
or you'll begin to pile weapons
instead of books.
Angela Caravan lives in Vancouver, BC. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Landing (post ghost press) and was 2nd runner-up for Pulp Literature’s 2018 Magpie Poetry Award. Her work has also appeared in Longleaf Review, Sad Mag, Reel Honey Mag, and Screen Queens. You can find her on Twitter at @a_caravan.