Backwards

In the mirror first I see myself 

then the streaks of Windex Mama left behind.  

On the third look, 

I see her staring back 

from another room , the cat under the bed,

the way that picture looks

backwards.

Today is the first time I’ve noticed 

that everything is tableau

worth writing down.

In the kitchen I arrange the objects 

on the formica tabletop.

Salt and pepper shakers shaped 

like Mickey and Minnie, a sticky syrup bottle,

Mama’s plastic plates with the pink rose

in the very center.

Our turquoise vinyl couch

always squeaks when I sit down

and unfold the funny papers.

The cartoons are Black and White,

the blurbs in balloon boxes.

Outside lawnmowers hum,

kids glide by on two wheel bikes.

The summer air is breathing peace.

We have not yet become human metaphors

for mass consumption.

I am no longer certain if I am there

looking ahead

or here looking back. 

I see myself in the mirror first

and then the world turned backwards.