Mirror, mirror on the shelf
tells ghoulish tales about myself . . .
Points out wrinkles near my eyes,
shows I’ve grown to twice my size,
says my cheeks look sucked in, hollow –
the truth’s a bitter pill to swallow . . .
It highlights strands of hair turned grey.
My “get up and go” has clearly gone away.

Colleague and acquaintance get into the act
and presume I’d want to know for a fact
that my front tooth’s chipped, I’ve a double chin,
my once glossy mane is now listless and thin.
They deplore my ideals; I haven’t achieved much
in terms of possessions, connections and such.
My clothes and my food aren’t what they should be,
I’m a fool, a failure! I almost agree . . .

“Removing a gall bladder’s routine,” says the boss
“and the same with a uterus.” I think – “It’s not his loss . . .
He won’t have multiple punctures when the nurse can’t find a vein,
or his aching belly prodded again and again.
He will not be counting seconds with swollen arms and glucose drips,
Tubes stuck up his nostrils, water rationed to sips.
He’ll not know the pain luring you to review it all –
the unfairness, the futility of head–banging against a wall . . .”

Till the mind struggles free, flees to my silent space
where I call up my names, look each one in the face –
I am Warrior, Healer, Siren . . . mirror, mirror on the shelf . . .
Daughter, Mother, Sister, Lover, Friend – I have embraced myself . . .