A house of mourning

must cloak its mirrors.

For seven days I looked

in the backs of spoons

to check my teeth or

the bloating of my face.

The sun wept white over

the crystal light-fixtures.

People touched each other

by squeezing their shoulders,

faces, pinched as if saying

I’m sorry. I escaped

the black veil of my grief

in the prism of other people.

In the soul-bright glint

of the fine china my eyes

became a room of eyes.

My face, a room of faces,

pink and alive with memory.

I soon had no use for mirrors.

I reflected on every surface.