Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
In my mother’s dream
we were silver cups
and we glistened
the way babies do
when they are still
supple as raindrops
before the sharp
angle of elbow
and knee crowd
the birth canal
and age begins
to reveal the tiny
dents and tarnishes.
In the dream we
were unbreakable
and my mother
was whole.
Now her dream
becomes mine:
I hold out my hand
but there is nothing
to catch but air.