She stands by the mirror
dissecting the woman crosswise – 
                                    corner to corner.
Red-rimmed eyes narrowed – 
                                    blank.
Mouth pinched.
Horizontal lines
show the tag of dashing turns – 
the branded trunk of cattle –  
                                     
Arms hang loose – 
loomed by veins and patches.       
Her body bare
in burst-out bumps
stands rigid,
           static.
A metallic sheet
posed in dual panic mode –    
A miscast 
of implied anti-thrill        
in the still of the night.

She stands by the mirror
to hear from the rival’s mouth. 
A voice ticks against walls of matter – 
The voice breathing from the back of her brow –
against the hollow of tomorrow 
in the room where the child sleeps.

She stands beside herself
detached from body, crown and arms –  
scissors against scalp
eyes split by glooms 
while auburn curls fall like shavings 
lost for a while 
in the curve of her view.

How fast is the clock in the darkness
when you ask for redemption?