Sliver
by Sheila Cowing

In the dark, she shivers in his arms,
hurt, wild -- like that great bird
that crashed through the living room window
last Christmas -- droppings, slivers
the whole way into the kitchen.
He’d cradled it wearing gardening gloves,
it only shuddered. Now, nothing he says
quiets her or stops her asking:
Am I pretty? Am I smart? Am I all
you dreamed of? As though she doesn’t know,
as though he is her mirror, and
she is pounding, pounding the glass.