So familiar, this silvered glass gadget—

this ancient invention once thought potent enough

to create yin, the water condensing on it overnight,

and yang, the fire kindled there by the noonday sun.

My mother, however: what did she see

as day after day she obsessively studied her face?

More than the loss of smooth skin: a truth

about beauty and power as universal and real

as for the fairytale queen with the mirror that talked.

Whereas all my father saw in his mirror

was a clean shave, the neat middle part in his hair.

Though what he saw when looked at my mother

was always, only, and ever his beautiful redhead.

In my own mirrored image, an aspect of each:

my mother’s dismay as she watched her face age,

my father’s knack for diverting his focus to other concerns.

As disturbed by my changing reflection as she,

and as willing as he to be distracted by something else.

Such as, for instance, a poem about personal objects

with powers as arcane as our forebears believed.