I start to long for two mirrors
so she can stand between them
and see all of herself at once.
We try to fill ourselves
with as much of anything as we can gather.
We spend our days swallowing
the pieces we want to hide.
We eat ourselves from the inside out.
She learned when she was young
how to cross the street:
hold a hand, look both ways,
She knows the danger of colliding.
She knows how to avoid
unwanted attention and loose change
and the inevitability of an empty page.
She also knows the sky above her
is not bule today, but empty.
She knows her head is just as fragile
in collapse as it is in observation.
When I am asked about her I shrug,
disregard her eyes,
and the crosswalk
and say nothing except
to look deeply and turn away.