The Mirror

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A string. Poetic form: The Fulcrum

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Designed Poetic Forms Resistant to AI Imitation - Suzette Richards Blog (poetrysoup.com)

As a youngster
I used to pull faces – 
‘just because’ – 
and practiced it in front of the mirror.
This morning the mirror took revenge.

At the rebellious age of thirteen,
I sneaked eyeliner past my mother;
squinting for ages in front of the mirror
to get a fine line in equal lengths.
Now I squint to put in my contacts lenses. 

I practiced how to say ‘No’
in front of the bathroom mirror – 
just in case the ‘wrong’ guy
should propose to me.
The fly marks on the mirror don’t come off.

I inherited the cracked mirror
on the bathroom cabinet
when I moved into my flat
after the divorce.
I own seven years bad luck - one more year to go.

My eyes change colour
depending on my mood:
it is deep azure when I’m happy,
but grass green when I’ve been crying.
The mirror tells me my eyes are jade green.

I grabbed a towel 
to clear the steam off the mirror
from the refreshing shower 
after my gym session this morning.
I would not do that again in a hurry.

It is my birthday today
and I need to spruce up a bit
for the occasion
as the children will be here soon.
My mother looked out at me from the mirror.

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