In dark the mirror is a cinema of chosen
song, it crochets Ivory into corners and catches
flecks of midnight from a nightlight searing:
11:57, 11:57, 11:58. By 12:01
the closest victims of travesty have fled to deadpan
recesses, the glass distills to black
sand beaches and the echo of my iris
off coral grains is warranted by
nothing. This shadow is a long time
coming, perched until cobbles of colored ash drape
the dark and spectrum strakes the soot
vitreous. In brassy pupils I call myself
a vagrant when I was a goddess; sallow bags beg their
maternal obscurity, weaned
on reincarnation.
-- Vicky Sprow
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