Sondra Before The Mirror

The light strikes her,
bounces off her body,
then takes its time
returning to her eyes.

From where she stands
it’s not much time,
seems like no time,
but she knows
that what she sees reflected
is already a moment from the past —
she blinks and it happens again,
blinks and it happens again,
closes her eyes and she knows
the reflection of what was there
is still there, in the mirror, currently unseen,
but what she sees there is never
right now.  What she sees
is what just was. 

To know
what is, to know the right now,
is to depend upon
what her voices tell her,
and they tell her,

“Pay no attention
to your sharp and tender face,
your lean neck, your aged
but still firm arms, your eyes
that pretend to hope…
you’re one ugly woman
and don’t you believe otherwise.
In fact, maybe you should break
that mirror before it cheats you
into believing that you aren’t.” 

She opens her eyes
and reaches for the lamp
that started it all. 
When it hits the glass,
shards fly everywhere,
one piercing her cheekbone
so that a tiny tear of blood
trickles down to her chin.

“Yes,” they say, “that’s
more like it. You can’t see it
in this suddenly dark room
but trust us, you look
just as you should right now.”

She swipes her tongue sideways
to catch the rivulet as it flows,

the salt and iron on her lips
offering, at last,
immediate evidence
of what she is,

and leaves the room
to go out into
the world
unmasked.