David Jauss

Quicksilver, Glass

She stands poised
before her mirror
as if ready to dive
into that slow river 

and drown now, before
its current can bear
her small face down
the long years 

like a fallen leaf.
She’s thirty-one,
in love with the wrong
man again— 

her boss, the father
of four, married
(he says, now)
happily.  She’s carrying 

his child, though he vows
he’ll contest
his paternity.
I’ll lay out your past, 

he’s promised,
for everyone to see.
This, the man who kissed
her neck so tenderly . . . 

What can she do?
She stares at the mirror
as if it’s her future.  
What’s there?  Quicksilver, 

glass, and a face
floating, insubstantial,
somewhere so far away
no one can reach her at all. 



Donna Daughtery 1.jpg (90441 bytes)

(photo by Donna Doughtery)