Nerves after a Tibetan painting

My nerves are a spine of hearts from head to tail,
a rangy necklace of oblong pearls held at arm’s

length at some metaphysical retail
outlet by a dame likely to leave with a charm

necklace or cubic zirconia ring
a trainee salesgirl didn’t even want

to take out of the case, instead preferring
a gaze in the mirror—“Am I fat or gaunt?”

No salesgirl in her right mind would have said
“gaunt” and no customer is going to touch

anything that I’m wearing on my sleeve.
This fiction’s fiction, so I won’t get caught dead

out of my lotus position, and a touch
to earth calls forth anatomies tough to believe.