My hands, like the many hands
of a rabble, are ready with sticks
and stones for my body but today
I appear from all angles in the gilt-
mirrored triptych as something holy.
My new figure is that of a mother.
I would give myself this little room
with a curtain for a closed door.
My own mother whispers to be let in:
an empty stool in a far-off corner
of the cubicle is where I once sat
at her stockinged feet, waiting
and waiting to be a woman.