I know nothing about the history
of mirrors. The first, most likely,
pools of dark water. Mine is
three feet by five, wide enough to
leap through. For now, I simply
stand, let myself redirect light. In
glass, some waves get lost, some
bounce back. The longer I stare,
the less I like my father.
Peter Krumbach lives and writes in Southern California. His most recent poetry appears in Copper Nickel, DIAGRAM, The Manhattan Review, Sixth Finch and Washington Square Review, fiction in FRiGG, Hobart, New World Writing, Okay Donkey, Wigleaf and X-R-A-Y.