by David M. Alper
I emerged colder.
Day as white as a mirror fogged with breath, fleeting—dusk already casting shadows on the
meadow's edges like a mirror devoid of silver.
Cracks in the mirrored surface bare branches trembling against the glassy sky.
But now I stand where you are not, the one I believed I needed, like a mirror, to understand
myself.
If I dared now, I would be consumed like a mirror swallows the object it reflects.
Overwhelmed by sorrow, once, my body left a mirrored imprint in the snow.
Is that love?
How I watched you disappear into desire, never to return—yet still linger, at the edge of the
frozen lake.
Once, like you, I was certain— my agony infinite as a room full of mirrors.
In the heart of silence, a reflection that shows no face, a reflection I would break under the
weight of my presence.
Now I observe my suffering like a mirror, an impassive pane.
David M. Alper's forthcoming poetry collection is Hush. His work appears in Variant Literature, Washington Square Review, Oxford Magazine, and elsewhere. He is an educator in New York City.