For Sunday Miscellany on RTÉ Radio 1, listen to Lani O'Hanlon's poem Mirror above.
I used to be on his mother's dressing table, one of the few things he rescued from her house.
I sit now on their dusty chest of drawers, my feet fall off when his woman decides to dust.
She doesn’t clean me the way his mother buffed and polished, treasured.
I am not cared for like that now, but freer in a way, especially in autumn
when I reflect the fruit trees back to themselves and her coloured scarves
hanging on the door of the wardrobe.
He slides up books in front of me and I read their titles over and over
until he replaces them with others. The walnut wood of me listens when they talk,
and to their breathing and snuffling in the night, the room is stuffy even with the windows open.
Listen to more from Sunday Miscellany here.