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In My Mother’s Mirror

This mirror
said my mother
was mine and my mother’s
and her mother’s before her.
Look,
it shows your face
and all of ours.

Years later, long gone,
I finally look.
Now there’s time
and miles enough to wonder
how my mother held it all.
Imperfectly.
The waved glass
distorts or softens
depending on the light.

Look,
we are all trying our best
juggling and comparing mirrors
mirrors of the past
or of the parallel worlds
all around us.

Look,
my daughter lifts the mirror
grown heavy with its years
of showing.
My daughter lifts it
to her own small face
every gesture
a reflection
every breath on the glass
an arrow pointing
towards
or away.

 

5 responses »

  1. I feel the suggestion that this mirror has memory. Oh, I like that. It holds the image in memory of the generations of women who have looked at its face. Lovely poem.

    Reply
  2. Completely captivating.

    Reply

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