I’ve taught my daughter to be keen of mirrors
and never trust them, because they are man-made. Glass.
Too easy to shatter.
Like her confidence and her voice, easily
fragmented and once the slivers work their way
under her skin,
It’s nearly impossible to extract them. Instead I’ve
taught my daughter to treat the world like braille and run
her gentle fingers,
Across the landscapes. To never trust her eyes. They’ll
lie to her when simple touch, skin to skin, allows her to
see the world.
I’ve taught my daughter to spin her own mirrors the way
spiders craft their webs and make the world reactive to her
needs. She must
Discover how to ball her fists and pound the earth beneath
her tender feet until it shakes and quivers, surrendering
to her love.
Sarah Clayville is an author and educator in Central Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared online and in print in journals including The Threepenny Review, Literary Orphans, StoryChord, and 1:1000. Much of her writing focuses on parenting, and she is an assistant editor for the online journals Mothers Always Write and Identity Theory. Follow her work at SarahSaysWrite.com . Twitter: @SarahSaysWrite