This day the glass cracked blue,
the mirror was a window, no longer
empty space looking back into churning seas.
I hear you shriek, and shriek again,
this time it’s real: the uncut grass,
the bees and balloons, the shadows
and the moon. And you, you are the embryo,
the gift, the color of the sky that blooms.
There is a space for love.
But you haven’t gone, Sylvia.
You still whisper to me in colors, and when
I say “not good enough,” you turn my mirror
into a window. The words you send I write. You know.
I feel. You sent me lost, so I could be found. Sending
me your darkness, so I have hollow bones and cry
shadow tears, and you say ~ write. I try, Sylvia.
Don’t swirl me lost.