potency

the gold framed mirror

it is enough
to watch the water lap against my boots.
black reflections of glowing hills-
the lights look warm enough to eat,
even more in their second bodies floating.
it is enough in this wading liminal space
and only that. for, i went to an antique
shop earlier today where the man
asked how i was really, and i had
to stare into his gold-paper-framed
mirrors to answer. because when the
reflections aren't so soft, i can
hardly recognize them- eyes trying
to tell the difference between a gut roll
and the pebbles quivering before the earthquake,
trying to see if there's anything at all that equates
to goodness or greatness or even a shiny
splinter of glow beneath a nail bed.
yet how could it be so comforting to
watch yourself be still and listen to your
complexion? i had to ask if any of it was real,
the jewelry boxes, diamond rings, signed
baseball cards, and the gold mirror frame.
no, no it wasn't. and, to my relentless surprise,
his answer gave the wave of relief.
because i want that shine and luster and all,
but what a fucking break to know it
didn't have to be real. in the mirror,
there was no forwards or backwards, way
up on ends trying to make your life that
perfect arc of peace and justice. it just showed
what it could. me.
i danced around his words the rest
of the day, wading to the shore of unrealness
until i arrived at it in the flesh. to hear the crunch of lovers footsteps pass, rush of those cars falling
(far far up on the hills) and let the water
splash so unseen- like it never saw me coming.
i wanted to dream of you, but there was no
one to pin a heart on. so i just thought of
myself- quiet. not fading to the silence,
but knowing that just because it's there
doesn't mean it has to take up so much
space. i saw. i dreamed.
and that was enough.