THE CRACKED MIRROR
more like
spider webbed glass,
a wind shield your
head's going thru
that you're stunned
you've survived.
You can't believe
you've been
there. It's like
the photograph of my
mother laughing
in a pose near the
rail road track,
hitching a ride in
heels. No one
can go back thru
the ragged edges.
What was smooth,
now is wrinkled
as where water
moves over rock
or her skin
in those last
days. The cracks
in the glass blur
with the slash over
my forehead, spit
and slam the past
and the future
back at me