By Chiara Stegert

My mother’s house had many mirrors. 

Mirrors sheathing the walls, 

covering the ceilings, 

lining inside cupboards, 

the underside of tables, 

in-between carpets, 

heaped up in hampers, 

hooked up in hall-ways, 

some of the tiles polished so highly 

they reflected her bare feet. 


Everywhere she looked, 

hundreds looked back. 

Everywhere she walked, 

others walked also. 

Every time she cried, 

all cried with her. 


But when she closed her eyes, 

she never knew  

if they closed theirs also. 



Image by Jerzy Durczak

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