Memory Like Glass

All of you
in the tight circle
of familiarity are woven
like cloth I used to wrinkle
until you ironed me
out of the equation--
the birthday parties,
and Sunday dinners.

All of you
who paint me mad
as Mr. Rochester's wife,
hide me from any display
of your public approval,
but deem me safe enough
if a secret in the attic
of your morality
with its painted window
nailed shut.

Here is where it snows,
where days pass caught
between the faltering arms
of hope and the restless
desperation of escape,
which is never a possibility
if you carry ghosts
everywhere you go.

My past and present
polarities spin and weave--
the New Year's Eve we dressed
in gowns and tuxedos,
promising illusions of forever,
which is never a possibility,
and the snow that falls today,
and freezes and melts
as I watch from one window.