Wednesday, September 5, 2012


My hair in the bathroom mirror 
looks longer, much
darker, sun-touched. 
Can it do that overnight? 

It sways when I cock my head
to observe my nose
--a little slope to ski on--
Some man some day will moan.

I’ve seen this face before
in magazines, on film.
The beacon eyes and blooming lips 
and cheeks as red as beets. 

But that face is mine--
unwashed, unpainted--
no subterfuge at all. 

And I’m a child, 
she’s woman!
How can this be?
I can't take my eyes off me.  
If it is me.