The Other World

What is broken here,
there is whole. The mirror’s
bad luck sealed for good
along its concentric spider’s
web of cracks. The head
of the doll pushed back
onto her body. Synthetic hair,
jagged-cut with dull scissors,
long again and, oddly, human.
A skull, a vase, an old love
mended. Hole in the ice, heart
valve, clasp of the necklace.
The razed house reconstructs
itself, bone by charred bone,
burnishes the empty rooms.
And rivers flow back to their source:
Wet-dark trees. Raindrop
at the tip of every leaf
reflecting the inverted world
like a woman feathered with mirrors.