I enter the hall of mirrors: an illusion
of choice, amazed at the promise of spoils,
women crowned in tin foil. The air shrieks:
a solution of bleach, miscalculate measures
of colour for youth. Briny almanacs record
trials to preserve: a labyrinth of time lost
to the untenable. I scry my womanhood:
a divine silver lineage through cracked
glass, dead end and blackened. The stylist’s
shears fit to spay, fast lipped and metallic,
snip and erase, swept away by the inevitable
broom. I appear silvern, fade to brave when a
pretty girl slips into the pyre. Fate cackles:
takes my money but does not see me leave.
Lisa Collyer is a poet and educator. Her poetry maps the body exploring how physical experiences shape their lives. She is a participant in the Westerly Writers Development and the Four Centres Emerging Writers Programs. Her work is published in Cordite Poetry Review, Poetry d’Amour, Letters to our Home and various online journals.