I knew so little I looked at nothing in the mirror then.
There was no mirror in that house, nor had there been.
No shards of glass lying on the floor I swear would talk
each step you took, and out one door and into the other
is how I went, walking or running, my children’s voices,
my own, going along happily with my feet through dirt
and grass and swamp water smelling like whatever was
newborn here, most likely the bird I found in the grass
and took to the house but I knew better than take it in.
I knew enough to leave the sounds alone, I feared them
when I could no longer love them, yet I was so hungry
I pulled up grass and lay the bird in a nest I wove myself
and ate the rest, shaking the roots clean, and wandered
down there, darkness hours off now I was here at home.
(2 March 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander