Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Irene Latham

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.