Wood dyed
a robin’s egg blue-
paint chipped from
too many moves.
The glass refracts
our twinkling lights,
our flat expanding overnight-
one dining room here
and another unraveled
inside the deep mirror.
She found it propped
against a mailbox
and hauled her discovery home.
Lugged up the street,
to gift, not to keep-
since only a mother
could look in a mirror
and see not herself
but her daughter-
her own.
pm poetry 