Mirror

The mirror hangs slightly crooked on the wall, thin and long like a mask. Sometimes it seems to be part of the wall, sometimes it seems to stand out from it. One day you look it in the eye. The next day you sit where you can avoid it.
There have been days when you have taken the mirror off the wall and carried it across your back like a cross, sagging under its weight. There have been times when the mirror seemed to dissolve and you dipped your hand in it and smeared it over you. These are the worst.
There is a man in the mirror who tries to speak but he cannot make sounds. There is only a fish mouth darting and hands frenetically gesticulating.
Once you hung a cloth over the glass as if it were in disgrace. And you often smooth over the edges trying to bend them. You try to teach your friend tricks, how to draw rabbits out of a hat. Or you play love games with her, putting your hand behind her neck and stroking her.
There are moments when the mirror is made of layers you can peel away, labels from their sticky backs. Sometimes you smear the sheet with blood, or toothpaste, or chalk words on it. You long to walk through the looking-glass, but you do not dare to take the risk.
You feel good when you move the magnet and it cannot move without you. But it can screen a stranger’s thoughts or the mirror image of a dream.
Once you cut your finger on the uncompromising edge.
Sometimes you turn the mirror to the wall, or you look into the mirror and see nothing, or you mistake a new reflection for your face.