Chloe Garcia Roberts

The Aborted

Transparent in the day, at night like glass I become a mirror.
And she my opposite maintains the imperviousness of a lake,
which regardless of time, never lets you see beneath the surface.

My mother told me she thought of her as me who had to wait
until another time to be born. I feel her like I feel the future,
through the covering of darkness, invisible as a new moon.

There is none of the prodigal here, none of the known and lost.
Just a silver stitch in death, between the walked and the walking,
someplace I am and everyplace I was.

Even when joy opens me apart, her language rises
inside like something dreamed. A tree is equal mass
above and underneath:

she burns below me, silent as an anchor.


Anonymous said...

What a beautiful poem!

Anonymous said...