reflections

Fresh as a scrubbed kitchen floor,

the face glances only occasionally

at its reflection, to remove bits

of bubblegum from the eyebrows.

It wears a small scar in the peach

fuzz above the lip, boomerang

of a pulley weight. Before

dancing cheek to hip with Kansas

and the breed, with eyes sore

from lack of sleep, this first edition

is a Hoosier tomboy, wiry, pixie-cut,

preferring cars and dinosaurs to pink,

except for Bazooka, week-old,

saved on the back of the headboard. 

Now sun-aged, child-changed,

the bowlegged face stands proud

before the honesty of the cracked

mirror on the bathroom door

and dreams of chewing gum kisses,

white sheets, and an acanthus leaf tattoo.

Tess Kincaid
October 20, 2010

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