Maudie Bryant

NOT QUITE GONE

The mirror does not lie, only waits
for me to see the shape of my face.

I do not want forgiveness
for making avoidance a home.

“What are you reaching for?” they ask.
“A kind of vanishing,” I say.

I mean: to be seen without being touched.
I mean: to disappear without dying.

I lay my children down like an offering,
then curl beside my longing.

I fall toward morning,
my mouth open, waiting for light.

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