They say she was doll glass, then ghost
glass, a rinsed object that bends
into its own deboning. Her mouth
stitched with rain, wrangling a wet
tone in a shipwrecked room. Her body
leashed to a chalk outline, a house
sloping seaward, swallowing mist.
Her hands oystered open too long
into longing, but shale smooth, sea
salt glazed. Against gossiping gazes
some go ocean-blank without forming
mirror or mouth, their bone-song
just a wet carping, but she uncoils,
swims away, a full arch, a rinsed
treasure rounded. Other doll-ghosts,
glazed iridescent in oyster shell,
mist the room with their lost longing.
They are mirrors rinsed of reflection.
She is an outline unstitched from doll.
Her glass mouth salted with song.
*A note from Zone 3: In the Spring 2022 issue, we published Simone Muench and Jackie K. White’s poem “Glaze.” The poem was printed with several formatting issues. We are republishing the poem in this issue, with our apologies to the authors and readers.