My Panamanian nieces are in the bathroom again,
inventing themselves. I'm off to the side,
in the bedroom, resting, trying not to think about
the bullets of lipstick, the mascara, the gel,
the furious styling .
A door opens.
It's Stasia. She doesn't see me,
she is still lost in the mirror behind her.
Someone is still calling to her, longing
for her, Anastasia! She is unfolding
slowly, petal by petal, Anastasia!
She sees me.
For a moment, we are both trapped in the mirror.
She wants to die. I look up at the ceiling,
like a man hoping for rain.
She begins
to laugh, softly, almost
playfully, as if to tell me
sometimes she gets swept away,
just standing there, practicing .
She's looking, though at something else,
something in my eyes before. How
quick, how sharp they were.