POETRY by ASH MIRANDA
vampires aren’t the only ones who can’t see their reflection each time i pass a mirror, all i see is a crooked shade, jilted, tilted, a jaw filled with a swollen sap laden tongue, eyes from a window, a widow, a different world, there used to be a light there, a face too, there used to be a face in that glass etching, a face, but the shade’s taken over. each time i pass a mirror, all i see is clouded, fogged, cracked. each time i pass a mirror, all i see is dew drops turn to tsunami, a ravaging bloodlust god, he’s struck us with rains. and the dead are on the shores now. each time i pass a mirror, i see what must have been a human, but i’m no more living than you. neither of us are vampires. you are dead, my beating heart, but here we are, looking in the mirror and seeing nothing.
i am a crow, assessing the danger sorrow, says the naive mouth, sorrows a crow remembers trinkets and faces a mouth remembers to mimic a mouth remembers to drip wet a mouth has never understood what nothing feels like sorrow, says the mouth, nothing says the heart, a heart remembers to beat a crow remembers faces a crow remembers to grieve
Ash Miranda is a Latinx poet from Chicago. Their work has been previously featured by the Cotton Xenomorph, Memoir Mixtapes, Witch Craft Mag, MAKE magazine and other publications. You can get a copy of their recent chapbook, dolores in spanish is pain, dolores in lolita is a girl, from Glass Poetry Press. Ash tweets far too much and would love to be your friend on Twitter (@dustwhispers).