Like a bad relationship, the Victorian dresser’s
two parts are dismantled. I shove the chest
of drawers, minus handles, to the hallway
where it sits as majestic as a wooden diva.
The mirror, mounted in an oval frame, leans
against the coffee table, reflecting the lower
half of anyone who walks past it. You are
stretched out like a sultan on a Deacon’s bench
behind the table. It is my idea to rest the mirror
against the table. You rise with a quick, nervous
turn, bump the frame with your knee.
The mirror crashes to the carpet.

Dozens of shards shine at me like accusing eyes.
You are stiff with disgust, cross the room
for a sweeper. I kneel to gather large pieces.
The small ones gleam like distant stars or
particles of the broken connection between us.
I think of the Phantom of the Opera smashing
his fist into a mirror to destroy his image.
Have you destroyed us this evening with
one false move? I want to apologize for suggesting
where to place the mirror, but I’m not yet certain
of my guilt.

Glass specs ding, clatter against the metal underside
of the sweeper, a sound as explosive as the tension
between us. The wooden frame stands empty,
the sweeper dead silent with the snap of a switch.
I wait for the spread of your arms as a sign
dismissing the incident, but instead
you climb stairs to bed. I sink into a wingback chair,
close my eyes, see the twinkle of glass
like a dance of finality.

– R. Nikolas Macioci