I Write



Who Is That Woman?

Who is that woman peering back at me
in those copper pots?  Hair the color of oysters,
rays of wrinkles, scattering from two eyes, sallow suns;
neck, a swag of drapery folds?
Scrub, rub, rub those copper pots.
Scour grime, griseous green to the glow.
Who is that woman reflected in those copper pots,
scowling back at me?  Shrinking, small hands,
sunspots sprinkled over thin blue veins.
Not the beauty I once knew, auburn, knock-out queen.
Scrub, shine that copper.  Who can she be?
The more I rub, the clearer she comes to me.