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A Glass Life

David Mohan

This was its way, the years all rehearsal,
the faces foxed, gestures shifty
as insects trapped beneath glass.

When you brushed your hair
you swore that eyes on the other side
swallowed your image.

If you approached to appraise,
to turn and see your nakedness
lips might mist your image.

If the day changed its mind and the light went out,
what you saw followed your thoughts like a shadow
becoming phantom, hiding in twists of your mind.

All of it, river stones, field studies of the hours,
snapshots never kept—these are the keepsakes
you find washed up in the lee of your bedroom.

And if you touched its skin on a hot day
you felt the shimmer of summer
under its cool, a store of heat like memory...