Opening the drawers, veneer
peeling off, waiting
for the smell of old lacquer
and face powder to waft over me.
In the center drawer where she
kept bobby pins and costume
jewelry (the princess ring
I wore on my thumb)
I stash silk scarves and leather
gloves I never wear, half-
used eye shadows, mascaras
and lipsticks.
The drawers on either side:
deep and empty coffins.
The mirror rocks on its hinges—desilvered
edges fade to a tarnished black.
Gazing in the mirror, I see
my mother looking back—
Change your dress, stand up straight,
Comb your hair—echoes in the glass.
