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After Carrie Mae Weems ‘The Kitchen Table Series’   Hands placed just so, I instructed the mirror to document transformation – becoming my mother with nothing more than a gesture and the sheen of bright red gloss Who knew ten years later, I’d avoid mirrors that threw her in my face Did I say all mirrors? Except I was crashing them against concrete Finding the most triangular edge Digging the earth of my body for a reflection I could believe Hospital windows wouldn’t break I’d know That was a long time ago Different time Today my mother’s hands are a constant shiver I stand behind her Frame her hands in mine and pull the lipstick across The mirror looks at us I don’t break it I don’t avoid her eyes staring from my face and hers at the same time How could I? I’ve now lived long enough to know what it took to be her