Alice Clara Gavin

It found me. A television fallen down park steps,
shattered on the ground still wet from night rain.

The same morning, Kim Jong Un reappeared
after a long absence. In the pictures, he was surrounded

by smiling officials. Later, I was startled by my reflection
in a bus window. I had forgotten I existed that way:

a woman, alone, reading a book. I thought of the television,
all its cracked stars shining. I remembered staring

into mirrors until I floated from myself, losing all connection
to the child staring back. Kneeling on wet ground,

thick pieces of the screen scattered down the steps. No-one
was there. Who left? Who made that beautiful thing?