The Mirror

Outside the cold, cold night; the dripping rain... The water gurgles loosely in the eaves, The savage lashes stripe the rattling pane And beat a tattoo on November leaves. The lamp wick gutters, and the last log steams Upon the ash-filled hearth. Chill grows the room. The ancient clock ticks creakily and seems A fitting portent of the gathering gloom. This is a night we planned. This place is where One day, we would be happy; where the light Should tint your shoulders and your wild flung hair. - Whence we would - oh, we planned a merry morrow - Recklessly part ways with the old hag, Sorrow... Outside the dripping rain; the cold, cold night. [From: Sterling, B. A. (1996) The Collected Poems of Sterling A. Brown . Evanston, III: TriQuarterly Books, p]

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I’m in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I’m thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I’m thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it’s getting ...