On Mirrors

by Grace Yannotta

When I first met him, he had a mirror above his dresser, facing the bed. I got nervous – I didn’t tell him this, but I got nervous, because I had read online somewhere (unreliable) that he was being foolish. With the mirror. Because supposedly any spirit, any being, could crawl through and replace us with other people as we slept. After about a month, he reorganized and the mirror was relegated to an alternate location. I wonder now if it was an omen – a good one? A bad one? I’m Italian, so omens are everything, but I’m also Catholic, so omens are nothing. Nonetheless, I find luck in bird shit, but I pray too, and I struggle for words when I’m asked if I’ve written any love poems lately. Because I’ve written love poems for every other man I’ve been with. But not for him. Something about the intimacy, the potential, the possibility, feels almost too frightening to dwell upon. The mirror’s leaning against the wall on the floor now. I can see my ankles, his bedspread, when I walk past. It’s better that way, I think. I can’t afford to take any chances.

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