After I put on my lipstick
I turn my hand mirror upside
down.
I know that mirrors can start
fires-
and why shouldn’t they,
they see too much of us.
Imagine absorbing so much
beauty
and so much pain in silence,
involuntary confidantes
like chambermaids with their
tongue cut out.
Not a hint of bloodshot eyes
or brilliant acts of cover-up
to anyone. But with us
they’re utterly relentless,
since truth is what we ask
for-
and how can we expect them
to blur and show us mercy
when the face, that peach or
apple,
puckers and blotches, when red
and pink
fade like the gorgeous
ephemera
of summer? Of course they see
that we grow to hate them;
that’s the thanks they get.
No wonder there are times
when it takes only the sun’s
intrusive glare to make them
explode.
