Glass

Book of Poetry
by Jill Rothman
 
I would have to work to be hidden, opaque. Transparency is my way.  As a child, I got in trouble for sharing family secrets on the neighborhood bench. I am still happily stupid that way.

Into The Being

You have burst forth,
your body squeezed for years.
Shooting stars the night you died.
You are free, sparkling everywhere.

Before, I loved you true
but also knew
the places to push
holding you separate.

Three times, in fewer days,
while laughing at funnies
shining through my lips,
people have said,
“You are your father’s daughter.”

The many who met you
remember the glow.
A blessing how much of you
lives in me,
how much though scattered
is still seen.

2010 Jill Rothman