Helen Heath

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Pick up the tube, hold it to your eye
          as if searching for a pirate ship.
Inside these three mirrors fragments
          of memories
re-arrange themselves endlessly.
Your son, the light catching his hair
          like a halo, late winter.
The smooth quick movements as you
          polish the lenses.
The chemical burn in your eyes,
          the dark for months on end.
Let light pass through you
          until you don’t know what is
big and what is small.
          This is the world now, the whole world.
Through a kaleidoscope, from the brokenness
          a whole could emerge. We look in,
our backs to the truth as if it were our own sun.

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