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An early morning Magritte (edit 1)
An early morning Magritte
A towel threatens to slip
from my thickened waist
in the early spring light
fractured by the bathroom window.
I drip water upon cold tiles
Mary, dressed in a black skirt,
purple tights, red t-shirt, stands
before me, excited –
as children are atomically
with sun’s return.
I brush her wavy hair,
a few tints of sunshine
trapped in the brown, shiny as eels
beneath the water, remind me
my hair used to catch the sunshine.
While I tell her about my hair
that was long like hers, the same colour also,
she looks at me as I look at her
in the mirror - our blue eyes sparkle.
I tell her once my hair
was so long a director likened me to Farrah;
she demanded it shorn for my part
in Waiting for Godot.
Mary listens, I brush.
We stand, she before me
before the mirror. I remember
my own hair, recall
the Magritte painting that once hung
above my bed – the back
of the head of a man
who stands before a mirror
that reflects
the back of his head.
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