In her slit eyes
my maid holds
me slave.
She steps out of my mirror...
arranges a tidy nosegay
of wild flowers.
I move away, she reappears...
confronting me in every
mirrored room.
A disarming mimic, she stands
near the secret bed, closing
off all escape.
Her hands stroke my pillow
and smooth away the shape
of my head.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.