Her Mother’s Mirror
written by: Allyson Lyon
@aroamingpoet
Miles above, the water is as still as the glass of her mother’s mirror. It does not stir, nor does the wind, her hair limp and heavy along her shoulders. A shift, a stumble, an accidental slip of a shoe. A pebble thunks against metal, tumbles into the lake, ripples to distort the clouds in the sky. Yet when she looks up, the clouds are perfect, still in their places, gently drifting through the blue. Trembling hands brush through her hair, like the comb her mother used as she sat in front of her mirror. All it takes is one deep breath, filling her lungs till they’re almost bursting like a balloon, air icy in her throat as she clutches to her decision in finality. Then the release. Hands opening, fingers spreading, as the wind finds her at last. A final brush of the comb.
The sky is still blue
Clouds a gorgeous last image
Of cotton candy
I have a love for the cliché and zombies.
Currently roaming between Brooklyn and North-Western Pennsylvania.
- Plane Lights & Satellites - September 26, 2016
- Her Mother’s Mirror - July 29, 2016
