Looking At Myself

In the mirror I squint one eye
then the other and dim the lights a little
and step back to the bathtub,
then further back to the toilet
and turn a little sideways
and crumple my hair
smooth my face with one hand
adjust the elastic neck
on my coral pink blouse and make
a sad circle with my lips and brush back
the white eyebrows.

My upper lip and chin are still grey
with hair crouching under the skin.
My nose is like a split mountain ridge.
My forehead is as creviced and beaten
as the hot side of the moon.
My eyes are like pits of green water.
Under the tight skin of my neck
a rock lunges and bobs.

Where is the bottle of wine when you need it?
Where are the finches that flock at your feet?

Thinking of feet, I remove my shoes
and look down at the long tendoned walkers,
toes like long pearls, the pebbled ridges,
the sensitive arch, balled heel,
blunt butte of the ankle. My feet. My women’s
size thirteen. My faithful, beautiful beasties.

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