the other mirror
i only know of your glassy
nature when i blow, and breath
condenses on your face, half-
shaven, you hold the razor sharp
under chin. as in a funhouse
mirror, my soft kisses are reflected
as running water — you turn on
the faucet. in the rising steam,
finger-scribed words appear: "could
you lay off my face, i'm shaving."
In the other mirror, behind
yours, you see a speckle-faced female,
reproduced in an infinite series, standing
in the long corridor of your bathroom: like
your heart's space of her, infinite. She
is facing the mirror, brushing her tangled,
showered hair. As your fingers reach to
caress her cheek, her reflection is in
brushstrokes — she retreats and tosses
her hair. The blowdryer mixes her words:
"Can't see you, my brushing i'm hair."
one morning you are holding my hand. you point
at a thick, long swatch of cotton, laid against
the wall. "i stand behind this every day," you
say. "i stand behind it and try to see you, try
to touch you, try to talk to you. but my
intentions reflect back into this room." lifting a
corner of the swatch, i see a corner of the
mirror reflecting the room — without us.