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. 

(photo by Donna Doughtery)