I have tried versions of this poem for over five years. It's strange how small words can take forever to find a home . . . even a temporary one.
February
Without us, the mirror is empty
there are no dimpled smiles –
no oversized ears
even our eyes have disappeared.
Our departure erased all traces of genetic precision,
only bare space remains
-- bare space and the reflection of a naked towel rack.
This is not how I mean to leave.
It is February and the wind is cold and brown;
too cold to move
a refrigerator or a stove.
Your birthday is so near.
I want to stand in front of the sink,
reach into the bitter mirror water, and fish us out –
bring us back to the speckled surface –
only the winter does not give –
we are fixed in its unmoveable
silence.
The spring will bring blooms of cheap
wine, fists against metal and glass as well as my first
confessions whispered before Mass.
Dad, I want to be through
except the reflection in the mirror is you.
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