The Mirror Field by Charles Kell
Green burns strong. Wax memory
forgotten until this winter month’s morning.
Off among dry stalks, ground underfoot
hard to the touch. Nothing could break
its surface, or almost nothing.
I told you my secret, one day, fifteen years
ago, staring into your face. In a whisper,
our breath smoked the burnt air.
You touched my shoulder, put your other
hand where I couldn’t see, only feel.
And I felt something inside break.
Falling in the daylight. You so far away
the leaves blanched your head, umber
halo. Your smile—another ballast of secrets—
felt too, anointing me with flight or song.
I left you there, speechless, hurt with bruises,
the name you called me, whispered, thought
of now. And let the wind prick my skin
with sharp needles. And let the wind punish
me. Dead bird lying covered in snow.
© 2016 Charles Kell
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint Ann’s Review, and elsewhere. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.