rugged red skin, bleeding.
Flames lick my fingertips,
the pain eases over my mind
as I laugh at the sight of you.
Reflections. Illegally I caress
the hatred, slowly touching
porcelain skin. I will never
know reality. I get on my knees
and open my hands. Grasping
the candle, donation box is empty.
I add my 25 cents, charging
for a miracle seems odd. I raise
my head, looking for answers
in the light and mirrors.
Deidre Grotbo
