In the Mirror

When I look at myself
in the mirror one day to find
puckers and dimples and grooves,
I remember my first 
of my mother's body as a woman's
body: lean 
           and damp from the bath,
the curve of her nape like a violin
scroll, the towel slipping off 
her torso as she bent to pick up 
a pink powder puff. 
                She'd ease
into her brassiere, slide 
the nylons up her thighs 
and click the straps
of the girdle in place.
How much work 
              it seemed
to keep up this surface of
pulchritude: outline lips
in the shape of a perfect 
bow, the brow's
                twin arches
and the eyes with a feathering
of kohl. Perhaps I have let
myself go. Perhaps I've
guzzled too much
                 of salt 
and sweet, craved the buttery
comfort of fat, finding there's
pleasure too in the lick and slick
                      of dapple.
Even now, she has cheekbones
that others say are to die
for. Late bloomer, I 
touch a stick 
               of color
to my lips, purse them into
the tapered shapes of boat  
or leaf. Every now and then 
               someone will say
they can see a resemblance. 

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