March 20, 2001: Arguing with the mirror

Bent at the wrists, my palms face the person I am. Tid bits of shaking awaken the worrisome keeper only to hear the face sharply question, “Where were you when I was younger? I wanted to draw beautiful homes and you ran away!” Droplets of white hide my expression, deep green lines disguise the index finger—it fails to resemble the smiles tucked inside. The face speaks to me again, “I can’t question you anymore! All I ever wanted was to be good at one thing.” My finger turned inward, no palm to be seen—this is the life of poetry, what can’t be painted becomes written… It’s shoved into a book to sleep, til the day someone stops by for a visit.