Mark Cunningham

  

 

Second Story
 
Mirror

 
  “In the mirror it’s Sunday.”
Tomorrow will be Sunday, too.
Always around the mirror:
 
Sunday.  Break its reserve,
cross to where what was left
is found, what was wrong
 
righted:  a shattering as of anti-
matter meeting matter and,
miracle voiding all laws
 
of physics, you’re in roughly
the same spot, bleeding from
only a few more scratches
 
than if you hadn’t moved.
You ruffle shards from your
hair.  Try to bend:  you
 
give up at once.  Now you’re
alone, and still you have to
stand a little more stiffly.
 

 

 

 

 

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