My Endemic

My Endemic.

Scraping another night
at the chin,
the lights are brilliant
with wine and cigarettes
window shopping
for the holiday
in advance
of nothing to buy.

Someone tells me it will be okay,
inviting me to
join their cult of bliss,
the circle, they say.

Strange how I was born
with no feeling for any of this.

How I'd rather
retreat into the map of
my shower curtain
and scrub mildew from China.

Because brilliance is brilliance
when I scrub my diamonds of
faraway cultures
no matter who is on the other end.

Strange how this cleanser
becomes me,
how borax and calcium and
lime suits my pores.

Strange how I will wake up
as though I was never born
each day a new beginning
to my cracked lips,
my soul parched for reasons
to go on drawing the perfect circle.