RIDLE
by Lish Ciambrone
Like a dog
I look into the mirror and see
nothing
I recognize.
no threat, no lover.
I see an oak— I grew an oak tree
just to chop it down and eat it.
I splinter.
That was then, anyway.
Now is now.
Now I am a mirror lying face down,
a dog in the grass.
Dogs recognize themselves
in their master’s eyes.
I see no dog
but beneath me are the roots of a tree
slowly being eaten through the heart.
About the author
Lish Ciambrone is a poet, painter, and personal trainer living in Baltimore, MD. Her work is informed by her childhood in suburban Illinois, her teenage years spent dedicated to the Catholic church, every single day she’s ever wandered outside, plenty of the days spent under fluorescent gym lighting, and every dog she’s ever seen. Lish’s work can be found in PeachMag, Bruiser Mag, and occasionally on the IG grid @iamyourdad_now.