Self love

Past:

To the girl behind the glass:

it will get worse. Then, it will be retold,

get better. Time, clichéd and dense, will pass

and you will love. Origami, unfold

to learn a template and make a dozen

copies, cranes to move on, fortune tellers

for hope, the blueprints for a message flown

forwards on a plane. Hindsight: concussion,

hangover, mind damp, albums in cellars

clutch faded windows in bone.

Present:

To the lady in the glass

who stares back with those fierce eyes, blue and gold

like topaz and the pyrite of fools: pass

us through parallels, cutting the skein, bold

and furious. Shattered. Wounds glare, frozen,

all but she blind to their weeping. Yells as

loud as the larynx can bounce at cold clone

out of reach, out of touch, stone’s throw, bluffing

like the rest. Strives for authentic, shelters

in the crook of a wishbone.

Future:

To the woman you’ll become:

be sure to love the corpulence of your

home, the skin you own, and rest. Let your lungs

fill and your cardiac ruby swell for

liquid rust. Fall for your feet who carry

the strength above. Love yourself well. You are

your own mother, father and child. Nurture

as you need it. Bless the capillary

blushing the cheeks, kiss the palm’s reservoir

and drink up from your own cure.