She Turned from the Mirror and  

internalized the squiggles
she’d seen on her face—
around and around
her eyes they looped
and etched thin roads
going to and from
her mouth.  

Thinking she’d have better luck
with her body
she turned back to mirror
saw her bony waist
and tugged at her pants
that were falling down
like a Charlie Chaplin skit—
her naval his little round
mustache     her breasts his eyes
her thick shoulders the brim
of his old dusty hat.  

She saw once again her head—
lips too big     anguish-blue eyes
irregular     blob of nose
hard angles of age—
squeezed her lids shut
until all that remained of her head
was a cue ball with the number
thirteen firmly centered.  

Thumbs tucked
into her empty belt loops
head wobbling precariously
and spinning on the axis
of her brittle neck
she turned and stuck out her chest
pretending dignity.    

~inspired by paper collage by Lorette C. Luzajic