Red Hair

The third poem in the Ivory Skin series

Red Hair

 

The mirror lay shattered on her bedroom floor.

The ornate frame, broken in a dozen pieces,

strewn around the room,

on the bed,

on the bureau,

on the night table,

in the open closet.

 

She stood barefoot amongst the jagged pieces.

Tears filled her eyes,

Flowing in a black, blue, stream,

Down her cheeks.

 

She looked down through clouded eyes.

All she could see was her long red hair,

imaged back at her from

every broken dream

that lay at her feet.

 

“How did I get here?”

 

The wine bottle in her hand

fell to the floor,

its contents spilling over the broken mirror,

masking the red haired image,

in a crimson fog.

 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

 

She held her chest.

It was as though someone was pulling a belt tight on her.

Her crying was gasp like sobs,

her eyes wide in fear and pain.

The stream of blue, black on her cheeks,

was now a river.

 

She turned quickly, her hand outreached.

Walking toward her bed, she was oblivious

to the dozens of scalpels

cutting at her feet.

 

She sat on the bed, her breathing loud,

and quick like the beat of some frantic drum.

 

Through fading eyes,

she watched,

as her hand opened the night table drawer.

 

It stared out at her,

cold,

unsympathetic,

final.

 

She took it in her hand.

She could not breathe.

 

The red haired images,

in the pool of broken dreams,

disappeared.

 

© December 21, 2012

 

Reviews

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Another interesting piece...the mirror imagery pops up yet again, but you have done something new with it. I like the "story" here, and the way that you bring together the idea of a "woman lost" and the "pool of broken dreams" disappearing. Lots of vivid imagery here, and I enjoyed the flow as well :)

[BillTemple]

Thank you for your wonderful comment. This series is dear to me.