Poems

Changing Room

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.