hall of mirrors

frozen, southhaven

every facet contains a face

each one real but none quite true

not turned nor carved but cut like glass

and I have prism’d just like that

slanting time to make it last or

close my eyes until it passes

morning moon and nighttime noon

a sun note rising from the tomb

where I was once then once again

the face of now that’s now the past

unwrapped from time’s slow tourniquet

a flawless light imperfectly cast in

every face behind the glass

~ Liana Seaver 12/14


Last night, Denise Miller rocked it at FIRE and I hung around her too close a bit longer than necessary so something of her could rub off on me. That’s when I noticed a thing on the wall behind her–held up with thumbtacks. I scooched in to see it better. It was a poem I’d written last year; must have left it behind from my show in March. It didn’t get pitched. No name, but me…not thrown away. Perfectly anonymous. Whatev. I started to leave. Got to the door.

Then I turned around, borrowed Denise’s pen and signed the damn thing. This is my poem.

the Muse


somedays She grips you like a lover, other

times She just grabs you like a scrap

of paper . . . writes something down

on your heart… this thought

is yours, it is for YOU…please

SEE IT… cuz if you are busy

not feeling your life, She uses

whatever . . . a fence . . . a flower

a friend . . . the fall

of a load-bearing wall
© Seaver, 2015