The One We Thought was Mother

Hidden within a metaphor of eyes
your glance became the character of windows,
a place where mirrors refracted
subdued and ghostly rays which we mistook for ornaments of shade.

Upon your tragic face
the dancing candles drew us near
like moths on a cold night
that seek out particles of stars.

Now that you sleep, the sky recedes,
grey diamonds of dusk produce a light we see
through the soot of our vague realities,
the salvaged gems and memories of love
from all the times you covered your head with fire
and drew back your lids again.

Mary Rudbeck Stanko
London, Ontario