My Mirror Must Be the Trowel

Written by: Sheri Fresonke Harper

Your words lance through to bone, acid sizzling into every hole
I haven't filled in, yet I dig, and ponder, and dig, filling in.

I still rock where the echoes of door slammed shut, bounce around
like a crazed nut of truth, crazed distorted view, walls where none existed.

The lifeline of my life was a frail strand on the morning breeze
I could pull into view, ride like a youth jumping the ocean waves

that you sucked into the cold vacuum of your jealous ways
and not ending there, you stole the skate board, stole the waves

locked me into a endless stuffed food binge where doubt could be sweetened
but locked me further into a closed room, like a finished book

that no one wanted to read the first time or the last or ever
because it answered no questions, kissed no lips, hungered for nothing

gave nothing back to the children of the wave, children of the clouds
and then squished all the children into little mushed piles you ate

and then complained they had no blood left. I dig, with this trowel
wanting a mirror of burial, where the skies can rain down upon the muck

and quiet your words, quiet your harping, quiet your blows upon pride
and leave me a trowel upon which I can live out or die, piling scar tissue

over endless lies, over the cries of hungry children, over the cries 
of forgotten waves and restore someday the laughter and surprise of life.