I have searched every drawer in the house for the silver earring
I lost in the sea. Have learned, at a certain age, how to look
simultaneously into and away from the mirror.
It used to be the lines that slaughtered me––
lyrics like I know I would die if I could come back new.
Now it’s how the lead singer mumbles the verse,
the hurt glittering, just beneath,
and becoming¬¬––like so many buried things––
part treasure, part bomb.
I try out the words mid-life crisis
the way I try on a tight mini skirt I like
yet hesitate to purchase. The fit not quite right
but in places, gripping.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 4.
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