“The loss of my left arm,” quipped Cervantes, “is for the greater glory of my right.”
Between bottles of wine
we agreed it was the right ear
Van Gogh lopped, by our memories
of that self-portrait with his head wrapped,
But of course it was really his left side
seen in mirror image as an artist naturally would.
My image, naked in the mirror,
the scars, I touch them where you touched me
With your thin and honest lips that sting me now
with the cold searing of their absence.