They tell me when was four I sat
cross-legged on the floor
staring at my eyes in mother’s long mirror,
and when she asked, from, the door what I
was doing I said I was looking for
what she saw when I told lies.
As a teen, I could not mask my joy, in school
at the attention of some boy or disapproval
when girls turned mean.
And when my brothers and I misbehaved
it never worked when I tried some ploy
to deny what I’d done or seen.
Love was harder to feign, especially when
I had nothing to gain or wanted to hide the rush
of blushes that came when I accidently
met my secret crush. With the real thing I didn’t care
to call it by any other name and was glad to make
my passion clear.
When children came along I learned to use
what I thought of as defect as a tool.
When they did wrong or I would detect
some intention of mischief all I had to do
was direct the look at whichever one
was fool enough to try or make excuse.
But even now, when I look in the mirror
all I see are rings yellow and blue, no thoughts
of fear or joy, so obvious to you.