The mirror isnt helpful,
as she never can see beyond
the edges of her face,
only knows its still a shock
to see the image of this stranger.
Though men often call her pretty,
she remains unconvinced
and the women friends who speak to her,
who interrupt themselves to say,
Your eyes are beautiful, are apt
to make her blush and turn away.
Beauty is not a gift that she can see -
in others, yes, but not her un-claimed visage;
thus she has lived with doubt and
disconnection made worse by husbands
who chose others she believed
to be more beautiful,
though never saw them except in her dreams,
where they dazzled like stars,
made her slink in shame and guilt
for lack of perceivable dazzle of her own.
When she loves, her heart is open, full,
though fears of loneliness increase,
(for her true mate has yet to find her here);
compared to being held and holding,
silence may well bend her heart,
though she will never let it break so small again.
She is safest watching from the dark and shadows,
where the mirrors cannot reach,
where edges are blurred and gentled,
where even her face
might be beautiful to her own blind eyes.
Courage approaches periodically,
if out-stretched arms can touch her,
keep her safe a moment longer
than her urge to run,
she is content to smile
with her eyes along with her mouth
and she will kiss you softly
until you (or her scars) make her go,
back to her solitude
but you will call her beautiful
forever
