Old Woman’s Mirror

Mirrors are the death of man—
to stand forever in a glass,
time stands still
and moments fade
until you step away at last.

An old woman with graying hair,
immortal in the mind alone—
spent her days drinking wine
until she woke up as a crone

spent her nights reading books
about lovers come and lovers gone,
her own lovers, non-exist—
always waiting for the one.

So, she puts on pearls and dresses her hair
and though nearing eighty, goes on the town,
she curses the girls
who trim and fit
look in their mirrors and sit around.

“Ce livre, ce livre!” She cries out loud,
“Stop your looking, go out and live
“You’re all beautiful just as you are
“It’s not the glass that will give.”

An old mirror sits in my room
embroidered with the old woman’s hair,
I think of her as I see myself
young, beautiful, and fair

I look away as I see myself,
focusing on what the eye can’t see,
I clasp my hands
and feel my heart
beating, beating—
young and free.