is the view in a mirror
held up to another mirror:

what we finally see
of our backs though we still face forward:
what we were.

Now, we put the mirror down,
we bury it with the flowers and everything else.

Who can bear seeing the past lost to us?
There is light. There is rain.
There are still stars and later, sunlight,
the morning alarm. A job.
There is still air to breathe and water
to drink. Or drown in.

The phone still rings.
My neighbor mows his lawn.
E-mails. Bills. Breakfast.
I want to smash every mirror and window
in my house. Instead,

I brush my hair,
put on the white blouse I bought
a month ago but never wore,
pause to make sure it looks okay.
The woman in the mirror is not me.
The woman in the mirror keeps walking.