Glass House

This is the mansion which God willed me

and no other. The ceiling is glass,

the stars unreadable and what pass

for stars stare blankly


at something just over my shoulder.

I am standing in the grand hall of mirrors

like a chess piece on the tiled floor,

a blind and insignificant player in a game


that the other has already won,

but I am trapped on my square while you

are making love to another who is

shivering but not with the cold


and I am laid bare against the world.

from Not in this World (Bloodaxe, 2015), first published on Poetry International Web, 2006, © Tracey Herd 2006, used by permission of the author and the publisher

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