Different Uses for a Pane of Glass
My mother’s canning jars haven’t been emptied since
my father died. Peaches gone brown gone black gone gone
when the light falls down. The man who painted the trim
had blue-bruised hands. He let me touch them once, the black nails.
My father didn’t die of broken lenses. The sliver split his eye, gave him
a cock-headed stare and a cloud-seam of white across the blue.
Did he see me any better after that? Maybe. He stopped asking me
what I wanted to become and handed me the axe and the wood.
I never punched the glass to get to the girl on the other side.
She was the same as me, only backwards. The mole of her left cheek
gave her away. She may have wanted a shard, but I wouldn’t feed her.
Her shadow starved every time the sun moved. Thin as my fingers.
Reflection. Refraction. Even the web shines gorgeous in small boxes.
My favorite part of the fly is that moment when it square-dances across the sill.
Sugar bees a cappella to the beat of sun against the clear. I would spin you
something sweet if our pane wasn’t thicked with combs and honey.
Notes: Still playing catchup! Getting there slowly, though. Couple more and I’ll be back on track.
Read the daily prompt (as well as the inspiration beyond poem-a-day) over at Not Without Poetry. My goal is to write a poem each day in less than 20 minutes, and without additional revision beyond the writing experience