YOUNG NARCISSUS PRETENDS TO HAVE A SUPERPOWER
She clutches two bunches of grass
in her hands, waves her arms over her head
like floppy bananas, and pretends to be
a weed. Then, she is a tornado whirling
like a dropped penny between her mother
and the TV. Narcissus gathers the living room
into her: the wooden coasters, the Disney movies
on the shelf, the Barbies whose hair she colored
with a black sharpie to look like hers.
And everything blends: her hands
are pillow feathers, her mouth is a glass
of water, her head is a broken kitty magnet
nobody can see.
Sara Borjas is from Fresno, California. She received her MFA from UC Riverside. Her poems have been previously published in Verdad, Yes, Poetry, Other Poetry, Stone Highway Review and are forthcoming in The Packinghouse Review and The McNeese Review. She currently lives in Southern California.