mirror.

Early morning,

cast aside,

she walks an open floor plan,

finding clothes,

and buying a drink from the little man in the closet.

Shedding skin, stepping into water,

washing away the years before today.

Combs out the mane of her pride

and scrubbing off the sentiment of

her gender.

               

Counting drops that collect

within the lines,

and feels the curves

of the ceramic tomb.

Eyes crusted over

with dreams.

She wipes her face in the mirror.

The oils of her palm leave a streak.

She drops an earring in the sink.

Down the drain,

to find its way to the ocean.

     

She dreamt once of the ocean,

its rhythms the shade of her bliss.

     

On her back she has the sea,

in her hand holds open the box

that holds her heart.

The lady paints her face in the mirror,

holding a prayer for what use to be.

     

Drawing in spaces between the lines.

She witnesses the face in the mirror,

sees her mother looking back at her,

and her mother’s mother.

     

Sounds of voices,

echoing conversations

captured on days

when days were merely days

not units of time

and objects of mistrust.

This was the day she had

secretly waited for.

Her knowledge of its coming did nothing to dull the experience.

josephmcabral.com
Dead Letters for Living People... the book