Mirror, Mirror

‘I’m so superficial,’ you say,
shaking your head,
and looking in the mirror
to check the hang of your hair,
as you twitch your nose like a rabbit
and dart glances at yourself from afar.

I stand watching,
remembering all those stories
you tell of women approaching you:
on an escalator – in a coffee shop – at a bus-stop,
to say, ‘who cuts your hair? It’s wonderful,’
as if they wanted to touch.
‘Oh, please, please!’ I imagine them chorus,
while you bask in the glow of their admiration,
as if you might actually let them.

Then I approach you,
and I touch your hair,
pulling it back
from the high forehead
you use it to hide,
smoothing it around your skull.

‘I don’t know why you need it colouring, ‘
I say. ‘There’s not a gray hair here.’
‘Oh, yes, there is,’ you retort.
‘They’re just not on display.’

Then I bend to kiss you
in the crook of your neck,
to send shivers down your spine
- and, as I do, glimpse,
in the mirror on the wall,
a reflection of you snapped shut.

‘Yes, you are superficial,’ I say,
as I find the precious spot,
‘but in the deepest kind of way.’

~ by bod1952 on November 3, 2008.