Stare into the oval mirror of silence.
Hear heavy shadows in the dark wood walk.
The lamp is already sleeping. Unperturbed,
It dreams of filling the room with things it knows.
In the mirror, the dark tends a question.
Do you remember what that music meant?
Something outside flaps. The moon denies.
Words not uttered, a stone door, still, slides open.
The dark keeps asking. Having been
So close, once, would you care to dance again?
Something inside hums. The floor ponders its strength.
Tiny cracks begin to appear in the mirror.
The questions take on a harder edge. If
They begin with Why, they will petrify the wood.
Who was it taught you how to dance?
And where? When did you forget the steps?
What slipped away you always vowed to hold?
How many times have I warned you?
Why do you want to wake the lamp? Why
Do you ask why I am asking, when you already know?
Heavy shadows in the dark wood freeze.
Gaze from the mirror wanders.
The lamp wakes. Startled, it flickers once.
The room is full of things it never saw.
MICHAEL HARMON has a B.A. in English Literature from Long Island University and a B.S. in Computer Information Systems from Arizona State University. He is from New York, but now resides in Arizona. His work has appeared in Riverrun (Glenn Oaks Community College, Centreville, MI), The Raintown Review, and The North American Review.