Opaque

What’s in a shadow? Can we

take it apart, unzip it and spill

its innards on the ground?

Do you think there’ll be bits of memory,

chunks of ourselves that we’ve tried to bury?

You say a shadow is just a space

that the light can’t get to.

That’s what I mean. If

we bury something, light can’t

get to it. You might be right. I

might be, too.

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The looking glasses

Books are mirrors, some say

and I know that some of my

friends, when they look in them,

always see their reflection

staring back, as they’ve seen

since they were kids. Then

there are some, like me

who only see their reflection

when it’s blown up to such a size

that every pore, every pimple

and every uncertain smile

is visible, the words

behind the mirror irrelevant.

I even know people who

have never seen their reflections

on the mirror pages.

They keep thinking their reflections

don’t matter, maybe they’re broken.

But I know better. It’s

the mirrors that are broken,

and one day soon, they will

all be replaced with new ones,

so everyone can see themselves

in those precious tomes.

 

A wish

A wish is all I need

said the star to the girl.

A wish in your heart to fill

the expanding void. Stitch

it shut so that you, yes:

you in the sheet who

becomes the sheet when legs

appear around you,

folding you up into a neat

package presented with glitter

and string. You can’t disappear,

fade out from their faces.

You can remain, bold,

outlined and real.

A wish is all I have

said the girl to the star.

A wish in my heart, small

but waiting to expand.