She’s thready as pulled caramel;
She’s all-day-sucker chinned;
neck licorice-long, under a gumdrop head;
marshmallow-bellied; knees blown bubblegum
and popped. Convex, concave,
the funhouse mirrors curl a silver tongue
around her, like a twist of soft ice cream
licked into shape. Now she’ll go dance
with them, behind the bathroom door,
inside the closet, homing in upon
teeth that crop up, ankles that sprout
from cuffs, breasts that balloon.
They’ll push in like sleepover guests
she has forgotten how to disinvite.
They’ll know the secret spots
beneath the Cover Girl, between her legs.
She’ll hike up skirts for them,
believe when they pronounce
a blemish is the moon,
her braces are a bridge too big to cross,
her brow too low for math.
Mirrors will pop up everywhere,
informants she can’t shake, will point at her
enormous furtive hand,
pocketing hope in shops;
huge hips, pushing at love
behind the visors of a dozen cars.
Midlife she’ll dodge at them sidelong,
a dog not knowing if the hand deals bone
or blow: a gray shape bent
into position to be swallowed up.

Kristin Camitta Zimet is the editor of The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, and the author of a poetry collection, Take in My Arms the Dark. She has recent poems in Poet Lore, Natural Bridge, and Salamander. She belongs to a poetry performance troupe in Winchester, Virginia, where she also works as a naturalist and a Reiki master healer.


2 thoughts on “Mirrors

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