Gillian Cummings

THIS SOMETHING

I try to talk to it,
but it doesn’t listen.

I say, Why would you
be as my end? But then

its curtain closes, what
remained of its morrow.

And the waters of its body
become my body,

swollen with grief’s rain.
My body, how strange to me,

as strange as this invisible
other, this bucket

that would catch me
looking in its mirror,

fracture into pieces,
not one of them mine.