IN A DRAWER OF COMPACTS
small discs of silver,
blues, corals, gold,
the world in glass
the size of a quarter.
Women waiting at
mirrors like Penelope
at the loom, checking,
rechecking strands
as if poised to play
a harp, weaving colors,
rouge and mascara,
waiting with a
light on outside
for someone to
return, looking
in one mirror and
then discarding it as
if the next would
reflect what is
unraveling, only
to be woven like
a spell she could
wear and wrap in,
her fingers with a
life of their
own under cold
stars she must
have felt at
the mercy of