by Paul Hooker

By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.
				—Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn.

You are not alone here.

The mirror cracks and shatters
In myriad tinkling falling slivers
That whisper like a Judas kiss.
A thousand eyes, framed by a thousand faces
Accuse, forgive, dissect and reassemble.
But the parts don’t match, and symmetry
Is vanity’s vision. 
Did you think your secrets would survive this?

Your name, too, lies 
Shattered among the shards. 
It is not so much that you pretended
But that you trusted the pretending.
It is not so much that you dreamed
But that you thought you were worthy 
of a dream.

No surprise, then, that this mirror broke,
But that it was one piece so long,
So many years allowing the impression
Of one face, one well-considered spirit,
Serenity, solidity, self-control.
But behind the eyes, so many. 
So very many.

Too shattered now for re-collection,
Too many razored reasons,
Too many jagged memories, 
Cut deep the fingers given to repair.
The fissured faces speak with single voice;
From a thousand mouths, they tell
The truth:
No glue can mend the fragments of a shattered soul.

Mirrors are haunted houses.