Cut

Lots of things happened.

Recco, the long-feathered ara
from across the street
finally showed his face
and stuck one bewildered eye
through the gate;

an alligator was spotted
in the East End late at night
as she was taking a stroll
down a back-alley obliviously,
then promptly returned home;

the northern constellations
rotated as they had to,
the shooting stars shower
never failed to come and go,
numerous accidents were reported
on the morning radio.

But low on my left calf
I still wear two small scars
(half-punishment,
half-prize)
from where the pedal
of the bike I pushed for you
cut into the flesh
weeks ago.

The Mirror

This mirror is not for everyone

because it shows the cruellest truth.

It takes a good look

at the one looking

and detects failures and blemishes:

that pinkish spot

halfway down the cheek,

the white scar-line

at the base of the head,

all the broken nails,

and damaged tissues and surfaces,

a whiff of an uneasy

waywardness,

a hint of solitude

in public places,

a trace of indecisiveness,

a smell of late-night restlessness --

It gathers them all into a focal point

then washes them in the river

and lays them out in the sun,

blasting a spotlight

on their vulnerability,

reflecting them to themselves

in unwanted beauty,

revealing radiance

inside the defective part.

This mirror is infallible,

unbreakable,

and not for everyone,

because it is powered

by the engine of the heart.