Ode: to the Gal in the Mirror

Their eyes wash me over:

Rinse me out in clean, loving adoration, adorn me in divine affirmation. 

It’s the only time that being perceived feels good. 

Clear of judgment, free of expectation.

Even when my shape shifts through the sands of time and trials.

This place has been sacred ground to fill with wonder and winding hips, 

wetness and weirdness in toe.

They bounce in shadow and light through cycles of rotting and remembering God again.

Each time they are broken, their being opens into mind.

Oozing and rushing in. 

The fractal pieces reach down into the cracks and gives off the floor.

Flicking into the corners of crooked cracked ceiling.

Smearing onto worn and watching walls, until there is no more space left to fill.

The interior warm and nested like the sanctuary of a great and mighty being. 

Made cozy by ritual and retreat. 

The mirrored gal is a portal of memory and uncertainty

a foggy glimpse of something seemingly not there, yet simmering in the cells of skin.

Magnified, we wonder into the daylight. 

Tenderly wobbling our way into joy, connection, and love.

Mirror gal haunts with us into the world that makes us unseen, 

offering us the power of plurality: equal parts given and received.