A quiet glance before you descend the stairwell,
staring at your own face, the way you lean in.
You turn into Narcissus peering into a well.
The glass watches you put up your hair, slowly with pins,
an unguarded moment before going out, strapping on high heels.
We become children in front of ourselves, exposed and delicate.
Dust your skin with a dash of eye shadow.
Experiment with the skirt high or low.
Puff out a bit of perfume, rub your wrists,
the soft angle of a turned head glancing back,
your bare shoulder blade, the fall of fabric.
You think you are alone, touching your stomach,
placing strand over strand, fixing the part in your hair,
but the figure that sleeps inside the looking glass is there.