House Without Mirrors
In the house we live in there will be no mirrors.
Even your eyes won't reflect,
describing ways to mean absorption,
and the fingers you touch me with will burn with
a driven light, darkness having been
the thinnest disguise, flimsy
with its own inadequate excuses.
In the rooms where we lie down together,
lips pressed to the division between mine and
yours, there will be no clocks, no mirrors, no maps.
Only our bodies, only these doorways
urging us deeper into
where there are no mirrors, and nothing,
ever needing to be done after.
If you've any comments on her poem, Elaine Thomas would be pleased to hear from you.