the silver mirror (for Georgia K.)

she pulls a large silver mirror
from her   purse
and starts to pencil her eyebrows.
the left eye is bruised where she
fell several nights ago.
the afternoon sun comes through the
blinds behind her.
she talks and talks as she doctors
her face:   “god damn it, I’m always…
edges of radiators, ancient sewing
machines, wastebaskets full of empty
tuna fish cans…”
she lifts her drink
still gazing into the large silver
mirror… “you’re a funny guy, you
know that?… you say things that
nobody else would ever think of
saying… it must feel good to be
that way…”
she twirls the mirror in her fingers
and blows cigarette smoke through it
like a revolving door.
“I’m glad you don’t like women who
wear pantyhose… it de-cunts a woman,
plugs   it up like a vat of goat’s milk…”
the afternoon sun seeps through her
redbrown hair.   quickly she crosses
her legs, kicks the top foot up and
down.   she drops the silver mirror
back into her purse, looks up at me–
her eyes very large and the palest
of greens that I have even seen, and
down through Georgia and in New Orleans
and   up in Maine
the whole world rides in her glance
and at last
the world is fairly