The sun rises before me now, casting a
yellow bar across the bathroom mirror.
Cold water and toddler senses, I actualize my
fingers, the movement of eyelids.
Reaching out from the gathers of my eyes
I see there are fine eggshell cracks, laughing,
splintering the crest of my cheekbone
into tidal patterns, deltas, highways
I remember mothers of my friends, more
delicate and polished than my woodsmoke
and raw onion sturdy mother, warning me
against the sun, about the sea, about light
As if the fractures and creases of living
and the spangled decay of age
and the inevitable fall from grace
into a fragmented, wrinkled joy stained
could be avoided
may 2015, copyright Sarah Hirsch
A blog of mostly poems, some prose. Recent works will be added to the top, and older pieces are backdated. Please write me a note if you have any questions, etc!
All works are original and copyright Sarah Hirsch, 2021. Please contact me directly if you would like permission to use any images or words. Thank you!
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