The first day working from home.
Mid-March winter gray persisting into spring.
The makeshift office propped up in the bedroom.
VPN set up on the company machine.
A bed neatly made in the background of the first Zoom.
The boss’s voice ringing out over my pillows.
Something the Therapist Said:
Every reflection is a lie.
No mirror, no selfie, no placid pool
shows you the real you—
only a turned-around approximation.
Never have you seen your true face,
only a disfiguration of light, shiny
nicks, pixels in a warped plane,
ripples on water tremored from beneath.
Never have you gazed into your own eyes
and told you how much you love you.
Never leaned in so close that
you could whisper sweet nothings to yourself.
Never so close that you could steal a kiss.
© Eric Lochridge
Eric Lochridge (he/him) is a poet and editor living in western Washington between the mountains and the sea. He is the author of My Breath Floats Away From Me (FutureCycle Press, 2022) and three chapbooks. His poems have appeared in DIAGRAM, UCity Review, Okay Donkey, and Kissing Dynamite. Find him on Twitter @ericedits and at ericedits.wordpress.com.