For two months now this girl 

has been staring at me from inside the mirror.

She shakes her colorless bonnet, her flimsy dress

fluttering. She looks like she has lost something,

her eyes darting and unfocused, her movements jitterish,

arms fumbling for disappearing directions,

fingers scratching at her hair-sprayed strands,

She looks like she is lost.

She reaches out her hand through the mirror,

reaches to my toothbrush, my sink,

my liquid soap diluted with water.

She reaches and reaches and her tears smear on the glass,

the tip of her finger almost touching my navel,

She screams Run!

And I turn and sprint out, but footsteps pound after me,

palms grip me and force on a bonnet,

smother my screams, pull me into a skirt just like hers-

Somehow I’m back in front of the mirror.

She has my face, I notice. That’s funny.

I never really looked at her.

It’s not that she’s not pretty, no,

she’s beautiful

in all the ways they like.

smoothed out braids to my birdnest,

jawline contour sharper than glass edge,

her manicure will never have a chip.

It’s really not that bad

to look like her

Look pretty, look beautiful

see her beauty and nothing else

I wave, and she does too, 

two figurines in front of a mirror, two poppies,

one full, one slender,

waiting to be picked.