Cerriwiden
Experienced
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2004
- Posts
- 77
I was her, but I fell
out of the mirror,
where days were peopled
with children, where once
upon a time fiction
was a man, a women
picking up dropping off
pieces of themselves,
the hollow heart
of a house, a hearth
where bread is broken
to bits small enough
to swallow without choking.
Years can pass this way,
in errands, through doorways,
and the irrefutable fact of small hands
destined to reach beyond
whatever you can give them.
I was her. I thought I was
someone. You can write "wife"
on a scap of paper. It's just
a word, a reference
to beds and bank accounts,
to someone else's name,
once upon a time, fiction
smooth as glass
until until until
the mirror shatters
your reflection.
out of the mirror,
where days were peopled
with children, where once
upon a time fiction
was a man, a women
picking up dropping off
pieces of themselves,
the hollow heart
of a house, a hearth
where bread is broken
to bits small enough
to swallow without choking.
Years can pass this way,
in errands, through doorways,
and the irrefutable fact of small hands
destined to reach beyond
whatever you can give them.
I was her. I thought I was
someone. You can write "wife"
on a scap of paper. It's just
a word, a reference
to beds and bank accounts,
to someone else's name,
once upon a time, fiction
smooth as glass
until until until
the mirror shatters
your reflection.