old windows hang on her walls. who
looked through you when you were young?
that’s what I want to ask them. who
pressed their forehead against
your caress of coolness in August’s vice, or
flicked your edge with impatience on Christmas
and when my skin has stretched too
long over my skeleton, what fingermarks
will be left on me?
the hot breath of the world will show
on my looked-through panes, but I won’t
let them draw faces.
Lots of glass and hard, clear things lately. I guess things are feeling hard and clear. I am thinking about age and legacy and generations. After learning more details about my grandmother’s cancer, I have become further convinced that a truly strong clarity, like liquid steel, runs in her veins. I am actually looking forward to when my own more bendy self clarifies into a more rested and solid form, in spite of fear and excruciating difficulty.
Did you know glass is actually a liquid?
Or check out the new Best Of page. Agree or disagree with the choices there?