MIRROR, MIRROR
My mother sits at her
dressing-table arranging
her black hair into two
smooth columns
to frame the symmetry
of her perfect face–
(people say she looks just like
the Duchess of Winsor–
that gaze, that bearing
of the forever loveliest
girl in the room.) Frowning
into the triple mirror
she fusses with a rogue strand
that won’t stay perfectly aligned.
I must have been
about seventeen.
Over her slip she wears
a pale-blue silk cape
to protect her dress
from any loose hairs.
And to hide from me–
all those long years
the shame of her scarred
chest, her missing breast.
Hi Gerry:
Thinking of you. Enjoying this moving poem and its wonderful language.
I’ll catch up with you one day soon. All is well.
Rain is most welcome
Flowers are in abundance, peonies, roses, allium, come one, come all.
MUch love,\
Sondra