The mirror on my wall
slumbers too often
into bleary inertia.
I see her wrists
singed by maraschino conflagrations
ignited in 1835 by a devious firebrand
who played with
the wrong matches.
The man tossed fetters on Mother Mirror amid
lynchings and auctions just to
bring more lynchings
and more auctions
for all her pregnancies to
live a fate bent with malleability
immune to civil war.
I see frayed keratin and translucent epidermis
sagging on my mirror
pining in fragmented cries
for emancipation— to bleed a
brackish reflection so
human race will
repair their veneers against
Mother Mirror’s vengeance.
“when will we get an Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
I say writing takes time though veneers
erode with contaminated tears.
Mama tells me to bid farewell
to my mirror.
Sorry mama.
and Mother Mirror.
"Mr. Deshi" is a high schooler from Northern California who edits for Polyphony Lit. He often centers his work in the abstract and questions philosophical axioms. When not writing, He enjoys exercising and going on introspective walks.
コメント