The Heirloom
Now its silver paint is flaking off,
That full-length antique bevelled mirror
Wants to be clear water in a trough,
Still, astringent water in November.
It worked for sixty years, day and night
Becoming this room and its passing faces.
Holding it now against the light
I see the sun shines through in places.
I wants to be the window that it was,
Invisible as pleasure or pain,
Framing whatever the day may cause—
The moon, a face, rain.
I’ll prop it up against the skip
So I can watch the clouds race by.
Though I can’t see myself in it
It teaches me a way to die.
