WITH LOVE, THE MIRROR

I still remember, Nora, the first time you stood In front of me, trying to figure out the little tufts Of hair on your brow, On your arm, On your leg, On your pit, On your head, On your lip. You turned every corner and altered every nook; And one day, you said, “But I am a girl.” I wished to tell you, Nora, “But you are just a girl.” A girl whose nose shrinks every time She tries to gather her heavy curls. A girl who has to balance herself Upon her toes to confine herself Within me, and match the length of her skirt. A girl who cringes every time the rubber band Pulls out an extra strand. A girl who pushes back The tip of the lace upon her shoulder For fear that somewhere, someone might See her...someone might break her. You will always be just a girl to me, Nora. When you sit close to me every afternoon And strum out some old Celtic folklore, I make certain that light reflects just About right upon your left cheek. The light was just about right, the day You sat in front of me, Nora. You spread Your legs and pulled up your torn skirt; Caressing your blood-stained thighs, You sobbed, “I cannot tell anyone. “ And you never told anyone anything Of what you ever told me. You Touched yourself and you broke to pieces. And I remained a silent spectator, As guilty as the times when you Hung upon me, rubbing your blood-shot eyes. You would very often bring sweet Mary Jane to my corner. The Hand of the Clock revolves Within its monotonous limited time, And you revolve and grow, revolve and grow, Like the mad women burning of desire, Burning like a tempest. The last time I saw you, Nora, You were burning. Someone had exploded A Roman candle close to your chest, And you burned, burned, burned, Hurling on the floor, an arm stretched towards me. I wish I could stretch an arm too. But you only saw you, Nora, You never saw me. You only saw you in me.