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By N/A
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My rougher days
start with my sensitivity
to sunrise
breaking through the window.

It gets worse
once my young lady rises,
if she tries to enhance me
with a cold, hard disc
she'll stick against my center.

The more creative moments
are best, like
after I help her evaluate
her looks, at various angles
in her cheval mirror
which stands beneath the embroidered
banner that says "HOME,"
and she takes that furry-tickly wand
with all her colored implements
to make artwork out of me.

I wait, closing off and on
(my habit, anyway)
while she decorates my siblings,
the cheeks, lips, nose with
puffs, blush, creamy liquid, as
I know my turn is coming.

Soon she's curling, styling,
manipulating my feathery sweepers
into more than just filters
for dust and debris;
layering them in black or brown,
lengthening and dramatizing
then she slides a thin black line
over my lid.

My twin keeps guard
waiting for a turn
on the other side.

Never boring, this life,
usually my job is
photographic record-keeper
guide and registrar
visual processor.

Vigilante to surroundings
capturing her world upside down
then turning it upright
fast before she notices.

Collaborator with her brain,
I digest her study pages,
search her maps, find her keys,
stare at that confounded computer screen
til I throb;

I release her grief,joy,
physical pain
sometimes on a moment's notice,
then stop on command,
or continue til we're both spent,
soothed only by soft tissues from her purse.

If she takes good care
I'll serve her all her years
marking the transformations
to her world.

Not brilliantly colored
as say, the late Queen Mother's,
some say my twin and I
have a hint of violet;
brought out by the right clothes,
and now that she's in her twenties
in certain situations
men describe us as "alluring"
though we haven't quite
figured out why.

At nightfall I shut off
the crazies of her day
my contribution,
remembered images
in dreams.

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Submitted: Thursday, April 4, 2002

Last Updated: Monday, July 29, 2002

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