The mirror offered to her gaze
a brooch of silver and cut glass,
a multicoloured butterfly
pinned to a limp lapel.
One lower lobe, once faux-sapphire,
gaped where a teardrop of desire,
a sip of sky solidified,
had worked free of the metal's grasp
to hide somewhere in unmown grass,
or lie where small-town feet would pass
and grind its sparkle to a paste
drought mixed with motes
from wings and stars.
The azure may have caught the eye
of boy or bower-bird or magpie,
prized for a cubby hideaway
adorned with childish trophies.
Its absence nagged the woman
like a dental cavity,
a black hole in a mirror surface
blotched as skin destroyed by sun.
She took the brassy cylinder,
her other nod to vanity,
removed the tube within
the tarnished cartridge
emptied of its charge,
and armed her lips with frosting
of brave cyclamen, soft peony …
Her personal insignia
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106110400331
Свидетельство о публикации №106110400331
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