Tuesday, November 04, 2014

on confronting a phobia of mirrors

At the red edge
quicksilver hid in sand
a stranger etched on beveled glass

lips fingertip-tapped
she knows

stippled veil of indigo
and amber agony
movements in pantomime

gypsy girl
without a face
(turn away: no lies
twirl around: no eyes)

rises through violet
bathes in snow-melt

a daguerreotype grin
dangerous crimson
a caricature paper cutting
dangling bluebells

translate her into circles
and peer through --

could it be my twin
chiral snow queen,
melting?

No, that was
a mirage;

it is I,
my own face
radiance-wrapped,
a smile
emerging.

Romaine Brooks

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