mirrorwork

a blind woman fly fishes with her cane

soft white jumper, fraying gray ends

her piercing blue eyes are distracting,

as I observe the early inhabitants of tavistock square gardens

i wink back at the sun, today it’s red

an eye keeps out,

And grudgingly awaits bus number 168

59

68

last stop: anoushka’s bedroom

(knock three times, and always bring wine)

Turning away from people I know,

the potholes scream my name

From across the street

I smile,

as the morning breathes life into itself

out 1, 2, 3

in 1, 2, 3

the search for inspiration climaxes

With the slow lurching of the bus

irises make contact

bloodshot

coffee steam

quiet camaraderie

a crinkled pink uniform jerks awake to the clink of a bottle of rosé,

I hold close to my heart.

The clouds glide back to reveal warm magenta,

shrapnels of water

fuchsia jewel tones storm down

mere downpour, torrential existence

ice cold, pretty pink eyes

rose rimmed glasses

warmer than anything I have ever felt.

Frozen droplets encrust the voice of a woman,

till a river of diamonds run from her mouth

she cries to our driver in the same tongue

that flows in my vein;

a flood wash of stars, heat and heartbreak

i conjure up the lines on my grandmother’s face

and as i fall asleep to the cool touch of window pane,

I dream that she no longer loves me.

gravelly, breathless humming

booms through the fray

frazzled nerves are soothed

and my numb toes match its beat.

As bare branches mimic

a palpable desire to live

in the eyes of the young mother;

dressed only in sweet memories she snickers

and I step out,

into the London fog.

Shards of a gilded mirror

lay on the street

stop to stare,

the culprit in the reflection has long flown,

His shadow runs back and forth on the tarmac,

immortalized in the pieces of a crime, overlooked.

I bend over

to make conversation with tattooed butterflies,

whose cage of skin and flesh,

serves them no longer.

One tells me to love,

the other says I should know better.

A little girl trips over pointy red shoes;

Hair dry in the downpour,

her pout is pink pointed indignation.

I realize those delicate lightning eyes

can see my butterflies!

I tend to her scraped knees

Only so she would stay awhile,

as the blood flows its course,

I wait for her to ask,

“miss? aren’t you just happy to be alive?”