--EVEN BIRDS OF A FEATHER FIND IT HARD TO FLY

Mirror to Sand

 

We are each other’s broken mirror,

shards our lips,

the crunch underfoot our sad song.

We glue ourselves back together,

slicing our fingers in the process

so that now blood becomes our tears

as they streak across smudged glass

which reflects nothing but

the black crib of death.

When I say, “Honey, please believe me.

It wasn’t your fault,”

you convulse and shoot splinters

around the room,

tiny spears hitting the tiny headboard

and tiny pink pillow,

hitting the kitty mobile suspended above

the basinet with its too bright colors.

After a while, you let me hug you

and we shatter again.

There will be more of this.

Of course there will.

We will clutch and shatter,

clutch and shatter,

shatter and shatter and shatter

until we turn to sand,

make a beach of ourselves,

let the ocean lap us

and bring back our baby girl,

cooing near coconut trees,

ready to held,

stared at,

or just loved.