Basket Mess

by Christy Bailes

I fell through the mirror into
a basket of rubber arms,
as if lovers had become
repeated doll limbs, reaching
for me at every angle. I

twisted my body to catch
one, then another, but their
fingers bent to forearms
in darkness that stretched
so loud, I heard love

suffocate underneath
onion pit, where I once
carried them with
elbow separating head
from body. Now, doubled

over in basket mess, we wait
backstage, in the farthest corner
next to dead stand tops that hold
dimpled trumpet mutes, and
say nothing to each other.


Category: Poetry