IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR WITH A BLUE VASE
She stands,
faithful as a
widow celebrating
loss. Darkness
blooms around the
edges, could be
a mourning wreathe,
or hair from all
the dead in a
family, braided
together under
glass, tamed,
obedient as any
dog taught to
heel, caught
as she feels,
dwarfed by the
heavy frames as
afternoon
closes its
leaves