She glances in the mirror, it feels
Unfamiliar. A faint cloud of a face

Stares back, shivers in the chill
Of the half-hidden moon.

Trails run circles round and around
The half-awoken eye, the one

That sees her thoughts, truth stark
And born of the night. The naked

Pane, like glass, hides nothing
On the other side; but reveals,

Like a mist lifted with morning,
The decay time carries so dutifully

On the backs of the four winds.
In this moment, she is most wakeful.

Stirred and open to dreamscapes,
Nostalgic for the bewilderment

Of possibility, of magic, of sight
Untinged by daylight or rationale. Living

Here is a mere trick; smoke
And mirrors, fooling the foolish,

While the imaginative escape, dance, and sing
in the white pools of the eye.

Staring back, a dusty reflection of innocence
peeks from a room long left behind;

it still awaits her return; it grows idle
and peels at the yellow wallpaper of her mind.

01/14/2008

Author's Note: This piece was inspired by both The Illusionist (movie), and Mark Strand's poem, The Man in the Mirror.

Posted on 01/14/2008
Copyright © 2024 Julie Adams