(The following is a poem inspired by the picture that follows, which was provided as part of our weekly WordCrafters meeting and may inspire a further development of what happens. Next. Maybe. Perhaps. *sneaks off to make notes for a new draft*)
Me—half of me, or a twin, or
that last shocked reflection—
I’m still in the bedroom,
still tugging the chenille with my toes
Or…the changeling? The one
who hit the glass with her fist.
I pull my punches, I know what
mirrors cost.
She hit with all our strength
but what she broke was us.
We shattered apart like glass
paper dolls.
Who really cares for more
than one of a set?
Thorns scratch, grass itches,
legs brush my forearms.
At least I’m dressed, not
naked—pillow sham shirt,
Billowed curtain skirt—she ripped
and wove, sheared and stitched
Whatever I left or was part
of my room.
My room!
My house!
My parents!
Who don’t dance, don’t fly,
don’t sting—don’t bite.
Whose poison my body
tolerates.
Whose dead grass scores my
brand-new skin.
