The Mirror
by Sharon E. Crowley
light dazzles the eye, reflected from all sides,
much better to skip the switch and enter this
room with a candle, that's what he carries, a lit
beeswax pillar, in his right hand, and his left
comes up to shelter the flame as he walks to the
nightstand and sets the candle down, basking in
the glow; the room is perfectly square, with walls
that are covered with pieces of silvered glass and
foil, even the window shades, but the main mirror
is his favorite, six feet by eight, and hangs on the
wall by the bed, where he can see his entire body
laid out, but not until he has locked the door,
which he always does, the only time that door
opens is when he opens it, his mother would
never understand, he doesn't know whether he
will be able to leave again, only for dinner this
time, the first time in days, limbs trembling
beneath his white robe, damn that bitch for
nagging him out, how can he be expected to soil
his teeth when they stand in such even white
rows? he couldn't do it, not with meatloaf, he sees
the changes, body thinning, dark hair straggling,
but the face is growing more beautiful every day,
straight aquiline nose over pale lips, marble skin,
he is fourteen, no need for razors, he can't
imagine how his father manages that, oh, the
eyes, he looks into them for hours, they are
deeply-set, blue like the sky, framed by dark
lashes and brows that arch beneath a smoot
forehead; he knows it's wrong to look at this boy,
his father tells him through the door, but this boy
is so much prettier than all the others, this boy
would rather die than look at anyone else, this
smooth, cool, untouchable boy behind the glass.