By Judith Curtis
She, perched on platforms,
short silk dress stretched tight,
the glimmer of a sneer, every inch
of visible skin blaring her youth;
the I-dare-you-to-say-anything arrows
striking me dead on.
I glare back at her, this inverse self,
this opposite of clone, this obstreperous kite
battling the wind she needs to fly.
I am a dark reflection of all she
never wants to be.
My words are useless as spent fireworks.
She has broken through all my locked doors,
avalanched all the rocks of my faith,
left me nothing but hot tears that taste
of bitter olives and melt my rage into
red, raw bleeding love.
