I'm not Afraid of Mirrors Anymore

I chuckle in my father's voice, and I
look like my mother and grandmother both,
but so much better.

What will you see when you will peer into
my mummy's eyes within my skull? Perhaps
the same wry smile, but


never, no, the same familiar cruelty,
to which you'll never inure as you lick
your wounds. Reflections show

only what eyes can see at some odd angle;
refraction makes the point, expecting
injury's return, and yet,


I don't return it. I weep, I sweep, I
do the laundry, and I clean the rust. I
move, and motion is

the only thing I trust. I turn the lights off
on most days, and other times, I dim them
and I lock the door.