the mirror

the stubborn wind would not die down

it raged outside and inhabited the house

with gust that stirred us inside

the wind knew no solemnity

for it breached the house

with happenstance and creaking

 

i heard the ironing board inside

moving sideways with a familiar sound

the clipping of the wood and the flush

of water and of steam, then silent

 

there are no mirrors here

i thought and looking up saw

a painting and my face

and i knew i was wrong

mirrors grace the graceless

without remiss

and i had seen, would see

 

i lay down summoning

the last of my tepid energy

to dream of life, of death

and more than that

to dream of a mirror

 

the wind stirred against the house

the house resisting its immanence

hiding in its crevices

the wind understood only

that it understood nothing