Edge of Glass

My mother bites the edge of fine blown glass,

crunches fragments in her teeth and swallows them.

Cool, smooth and delicate.  Like dangerous ribbon candy.

She is a small, thin child, sepia-skinned, dark

hollow eyes with reflections of long-dead faces.

She scuffs her knees roller-skating, metal skates

on bumpy sidewalks from home to Grandmother's.

Yesterday, a match fell into the wastebasket.

The kitchen went up in flames.

She turns a Tootsie-Roll in her mouth as she skates,

chocolate honey-syrup darkens her tongue.

Sometimes, there is a large, strange bow at her throat

or perched on her head. Her dress is polka-dotted,

gingham, flowered, devoid of color.

Other times, the skate key bangs on a cord

No one seems to notice as she grows smaller

and smaller. Fades. Wrinkles around the edges.

Tonight, she turns another glass in her teeth.

Half a house burns from her dreams.

Tomorrow, she may disappear entirely.

Mary Stebbins Taitt

published in The Women Artist's Datebook