Nobody appreciates the mirror
before it is broken:
before the winter air grips it
in a shuddering stranglehold
and cracks bloom across its face
like an exploding flower.
They sweep up the smithereens,
glance at the wall, and forget it was ever
reflective at all.
i only listen to my feelings
when there’s no one to hear them:
at almost-midnight, with the ceiling fan roaring
and the spring mattress snoring
from next door.
here, on paper grown yellow at the edges
they shout in blistering red
shoot across the sheet
like cameramen trying to capture
a crying child.
they sing to me in the colour of oceans
the notes become whirlpools
of blues and blacks and whites
the bruises on this sallow skin.
eventually, my thoughts feedback:
“oh, but the week isn’t over,”
and quick as can see, the colours coalesce, for
“oh yes, this week isn’t over.”
This medusa-crowned plant is unfairly named
for there are many with tongues
just as twisted,
just as plausibly envious of youth
like the child licking a lollipop
stolen from an infant sibling.
There are tongues just as pointed,
just as spitefully sharp,
inside a politician under pressure
showboating on the stump.
What would they have called it
in a language of no preconceived notions
and no fear of woman?