mirror,mirror

Early morning,

cast aside,

she walks an open floor plan,

finding clothes,

and buying a drink from the little man in the closet.

Shedding skin, stepping into water,

washing away the years before today.

Combs out the mane of her pride and scrubbing off the sentiment of her gender.

Counting drops that collect within the lines,

and feels the curves of the ceramic tomb.

Eyes crusted over with dreams.

She wipes her face in the mirror.

The oils of her palm leave a streak.

She drops an earring in the sink.

Down the drain,

to find its way to the ocean.

She dreamt once of the ocean,

its rhythms the shade of her bliss.

On her back she has the sea,

in her hand holds open the box that holds her heart.

The lady paints her face in the mirror,

holding a prayer for what use to be.

Drawing in spaces between the lines.

She witnesses the face in the mirror,

sees her mother looking back at her,

and her mother’s mother.

Sounds of voices,

echoing conversations captured on days when days were merely days

not units of time and objects of mistrust.

This was the day she had secretly waited for.

Her knowledge of its coming did nothing to dull the experience.