By Emi Gruender
Her chubby face smushes against the glass
Little fingers griming her reflection
She doesn’t see me on the other side.
She speaks like sunlight
She’ll know who she is as soon as…tomorrow!
She doesn’t see me on the other side.
Applesauce and fishsticks
Glitterglue and muddy knees
She wishes that the glass could give way
Just a glimpse, a peek, of the other side.
Her head is up to my hip.
Her hair is fine and straight: not yet curly.
She thinks she knows what she wants.
She doesn’t see
me standing there.
And I can’t tell her to run back.