IN THE MIRROR THE WOMAN STANDING ON A TOWEL SEES HER
BULGES AS CURVES, HER GREY HAIR A ROSE AMBER
as I've chosen certain
mirrors at ballet,
in any new studio
found the ones I look
thin in, my thighs
in black leotards
like dark scissors.
I never use those scales
that glare at you, dare
you to put a coin in. I
don't stand dressed or
in shoes on any scale,
especially not the
ones with my reflection
staring back where anyone
in a Five to Dime or
Woolworth's could see the
numbers race up, jolt
past a hundred as they
would in 7th grade
when Mr. Dewey belted
out how many pounds we
were in front of the
whole class. I remember
my weight in each grade,
like Shirley Maclaine
seeing covers from
her past who says isn't it
horrid, all I remember
seeing my face in 1970 or
1962 is what man I was
in love with and how
much I weighed.