Growing Up



There is a time

it comes to every little girl

one day she is washing-up or combing her hair

idly thinking whether she should get it cut short

instead of pulling at never-ceasing knots

catching a reflection of herself

she is surprised in a way she will not own

for fear of being accused of vanity

when the face staring back in glass

is tired and heavy and lost of grace

in that moment

wringing out time in soapy water

cleaning cat food spilt from saucer

deading heads of wilted roses

cutting toe nails in miniature slice of moon

when she is half unaware of time’s measure

leaching through space and her own lost

inhabiting dreams

when she touches her belly and feels

less firm more soft, a rounded ghost

when her breasts do not pick up and spill

in little dresses that used to fit so well

she puts…

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