I.
I wore a costume of pastels and feathers.
Threads on my lips blown into a wish.
White eyeliner, surprisingly effective on aisle four—
canned goods and prayer candles.

II.
Our eyes locked:
yours skimming my unintentionally peeking
dress liner,
and mine zeroing in on your gaze
with curious fire-beams.

III.
Today I’m wearing white around my eyes.
Today I am animal-holy.
I don’t have time for mating looks,
but thank you.

I feel ten years younger
and five years wiser—
because your eyes slipped,
and you dropped that can in your hand,
impressed by the glow
of celibacy.

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