Adrienne Rich - The Mirror in Which Two are Seen as One lyrics
[Adrienne Rich - The Mirror in Which Two are Seen as One lyrics]
She is the one you call sister
Her simplest act has glamor
As when she scales a fish the knife
Flashes in her long fingers
No motion wasted or when
Rapidly talking of love
She steel-wool burnishes the battered kettle
Love-apples cramp you sideways
With sudden emptiness
The cereals glutting you, the grains
Ripe clusters picked by hand
Love: the refrigerator with open door
The ripe steaks bleeding
Their hearts out in plastic film
The whipped butter, the apricots
The sour leftovers
A crate is waiting in the orchard
For you to fill it
Your hands are raw with scraping
The sharp bark, the thorns
Of this succulent tree pick, pick, pick
This harvest is a failure
The juice runs down your cheekbones
Like sweat or tears
She is one you call sister
You blaze like lightning about the room
Flicker around her like fire
Dazzle her unfelt needs
Thrusting the tenets of your life
Into her hands
She moves through a world of India print
Her body dappled
With softness, the paisley swells at her hip
Walking the street in her cotton shift
Buying fresh figs because you love them
Photographing the ghetto because you
Took her there
Why are you crying dry up your tears
We are sisters
Words fail you in the stare of her hunger
You hand her another book
Scored by your pencil you hand her a record
Of two flutes in India reciting
Late summer night the insects
Fry in the yellowed lightglobe
Your skin burns gold in it's light
In this mirror
Who are you? Dreams of the nunnery
With it's discipline, the nursery
With it's nurse, the hospital
Where all the powerful ones are masked
The graveyard where you sit on the graves
Of women who died in childbirth
And women who died at birth
Dreams of your sister's birth
Your mother dying in childbirth
Over and over
Not knowing how to stop bearing
You over and over
Your mother dead and you unborn
Your two hands grasping your head
Drawing it down against the blade of life
Your nerves the nerves of a
Midwife learning her trade
Her simplest act has glamor
As when she scales a fish the knife
Flashes in her long fingers
No motion wasted or when
Rapidly talking of love
She steel-wool burnishes the battered kettle
Love-apples cramp you sideways
With sudden emptiness
The cereals glutting you, the grains
Ripe clusters picked by hand
Love: the refrigerator with open door
The ripe steaks bleeding
Their hearts out in plastic film
The whipped butter, the apricots
The sour leftovers
A crate is waiting in the orchard
For you to fill it
Your hands are raw with scraping
The sharp bark, the thorns
Of this succulent tree pick, pick, pick
This harvest is a failure
The juice runs down your cheekbones
Like sweat or tears
She is one you call sister
You blaze like lightning about the room
Flicker around her like fire
Dazzle her unfelt needs
Thrusting the tenets of your life
Into her hands
She moves through a world of India print
Her body dappled
With softness, the paisley swells at her hip
Walking the street in her cotton shift
Buying fresh figs because you love them
Photographing the ghetto because you
Took her there
Why are you crying dry up your tears
We are sisters
Words fail you in the stare of her hunger
You hand her another book
Scored by your pencil you hand her a record
Of two flutes in India reciting
Late summer night the insects
Fry in the yellowed lightglobe
Your skin burns gold in it's light
In this mirror
Who are you? Dreams of the nunnery
With it's discipline, the nursery
With it's nurse, the hospital
Where all the powerful ones are masked
The graveyard where you sit on the graves
Of women who died in childbirth
And women who died at birth
Dreams of your sister's birth
Your mother dying in childbirth
Over and over
Not knowing how to stop bearing
You over and over
Your mother dead and you unborn
Your two hands grasping your head
Drawing it down against the blade of life
Your nerves the nerves of a
Midwife learning her trade