The Dresser Mirror

In an unfamiliar room, I met the
startled eyes of a stranger. In the
dim light, I hadn’t noticed the mirror
across the room.  Was it where his wife
dressed each day?

My breasts echoed the movement of his
ecstatic pressing up into my accepting frame.
Oh god, my shape in that mirror!  Not as pretty as
a decade ago. Are they rose or copper-tipped,
the swaying masses that nourished my daughter
and the lusts of so many men?

Still I thought, the hallway light silhouetted an
enticing form in his wife’s dresser mirror.
Would she later sense our presence?

My reflection’s face softened as if saying,
“Don’t judge me harshly. I’m living
as I must on this piece of imperfect earth.”