I trained myself not to look
in the bathroom mirror.
To glance up–safe distance,
split instant–and away
soft focus,
screen up.
I made rules:
not in fluorescents
not up close
not with others
on rough or special days.
yes in window glass and deli counter edging
yes in shiny car paint
yes when I feel invincible or hopeless or high
yes when I forget
myself.
Twenty-four years after I taught myself
the trick of not looking,
my daughter’s teacher
passed out small mirrors
and instructed each third grader
to look
to make
to imagine
each part of their face
as lands
and winds
and wilds.
My nose is a stone,
lying on my mossy face.
Bright purple butterflies
under my eyes
pause to pollinate a flower.
