The Child Inside the Mirror
A sprite in an iris pinafore skirts past me.
Was it my second-born child years ago
slipping by me at the kitchen sink
as I dipped my rosy hands in soapy water?
Steam rose through the early light
streaming through the frosted window.
I sensed she was myself brushing
by my mother reading the tea leaves
in the bottom of her rose-spotted cup.
Or was it my daughter's first born
her umbilical cord rosaried about her neck?
She shivers in the ice cold frame, whispering
I am. Here I am. Here.
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"Looking In, Finding Out
Photo by C. Albert