Later, at 7 A.M.,
the sun blasts through my window,
the most jubilant of friends.
Despite last night,
the miracle happens again:
I can somehow face the day.
I get close to the mirror.
My ears are too large,
my breasts are teeny.
My hair just looks depressed,
and where does my nose
think it’s going?
I check for food stuck in my braces,
always a potential embarrassment.
The only positive development:
My eyelashes are getting thicker.
And my skirt seems kind of short.
Does that mean maybe
my legs are getting longer?
Judith peeks in, catches me looking.
“Don’t fall in love with yourself.
I was better looking
when I was fourteen and a half.”
“I know you were beautiful, Mom.”
This sentence always pacifies her.
It happens to be true.
My mother was stunning.
But I wish I could ask her,
“Mom, how could I be in love with myself
when no one else is in love with me?’