“When your smile lines are one millimeter
deeper,” she starts, telling me a good omen.
“When from your temples spring
three gray hairs, exactly,” she begins
a new premonition.

On the street she looks at me
through the faces of other women.
A sly tap of the nose,
a hard tug
on my coat,
a caress on the back
of my neck.

At night, she’s back in the mirror,
sighing, looking at me closely
her eyes gently harsh,
like my mother’s.
She’s telling my fortune.
Strange—
I am just a girl and I don’t want to know.

I blink and she is gone.
But I will see her, again and again
and again,
until I grow into her,
until we become one,
and the mirror shows me
only myself.

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