We are mirrors.
Just watch–
you reflect an imperfect idea to me,
and I
will send it back a little bit
different,
a little bit
distorted.
We peer down the passage of time
looking for something that glass won’t change,
something other than a reflection;
instead all we find are empty spaces.
Gaps.
Places where the light
failed,
where your souls were
clipped
like wings.
With your words
you could have changed
the curve of history.
Instead,
tongues bloodied
from biting back beauty,
you watched your words run dry.
And when you did dare to open your mouths,
they left your souls
somewhere between Corinthians and Timothy,
between “for they are not permitted to speak”
and “she must be silent”
until your words became as dry and forgotten
as pressed wildflowers.
I wish I could write a poem
about how I’m a little bit different
because of your words, your hearts,
but–
those words never made it past your teeth
so cracked with the pressure
of holding
everything in.
Your brothers spun the earth
with their language,
but you—
you never quite made it,
did you?
Elsa Kim