You could smell the dead
when the stone was rolled away.
My father rose inside me
took my fingers and head
and turned me to the echoes
reflected by the mirror’s face;
“Welcome back!” they said.


placed opposite each other,
reflect to infinity,
reflect on the emptiness of,
and the fullness of,



I do not like to walk along the shopping strip.
The Butcher’s window holds my father’s face.
He mirrors my expressions, apes my curling lip
and leaves me questioning his sense of place.


should be buried with the dead.
The dead should have one large mirror in their hands,
and they should have small mirrors placed upon their eyes.
We should see ourselves in the dead.

The dead,
can hold us tightly in their hands.
The dead can hold us in their eyes.
We can be made of silver.

The dead,
are thin skinned and silver.
Their eyes and tongues are silver.

The skin of death is thin and silver.

Death is always
somewhere in the mirror.

Judas Diary of the Woodsman’s Daughter