THE MIRROR IMAGES OF ME
I had been looking into a mirror
propped against the wall
and nestled into one of my bed cushions.
The mirror cracked,
sent shards of silver spraying
across my velvet pillow
which engulfed the bits
in a soft royal blue sea.
I will miss the mirror.
It was something tangible in which to believe,
something to hold in my hands.
If I were brave, I would admit fear of the reflection,
that it broke itself
before the glass shattered.
If I could bear the glass under my skin,
I would shine.
—from Rattle #18, Winter 2002
Tribute to Teachers
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Heather Lore: “I write for hours on end every day. The layers of words have given me a thick veneer, but few poems.”
