How I Know I Am A Hater

I’m hating.  I’m a hater.
I drink all sweet though a bitter straw.

Whose face is this?  I don’t know
this face.  But I’ll kiss the mirror a bit

and see if I feel it.  Birdsong
out the window: forgotten.  Tree budding

under the snow: forgotten.  I can feel it,
the kiss on the mirror.  All I can feel

is the response of the screwed face.
The sweet through the bitter straw

sliding up from the dirty glass
then down the strangled throat: whose face

is that screwing me?  Laugh a little.
Birdsong, forgotten, tree budding,

all forgotten.  Screw me, face
full of sweet bitters.  I’m a hater

if that’s one in the mirror.  Myself
I speak a little to the incongruous

nature of the tree and birdsong
so easily forgotten, though they always

bud and sing no matter the cold
and the bitter.  No matter; sweet

tastes bitter, I’m a hater, kissing
my mirror, screwing my own unfamiliar face.