Dysbarism

_

There is a woman in the mirror
cratering mercury to speak
to me, 14 atmospheres apart and counting;
she is convoluted and sharp. Looks
to be reticent / window, forgets that
these are very different things
and that mirrors are not either of them. Says
Have you considered? That it’s 
your tongue that’s moving? and
her eyes widen—window, maybe, 
iris, cochlea unfold and soften and
she rolls down her own skin
and obscures her hands
wringing, teeth familiar and air-close. 
I reach out to touch her but 
she scours the divide,
leeches through glass
and into my fingers.