I can’t see me in the mirror.
Oh, I can see white blobs that stand for beard
and hair, and something red that tells me I’m
still here. That’s it. Some odd refraction messing
with my sight. Or else the bathroom bulbs
are just too bright. But I can see most other
things alright, the insulin, syringes,
bottled pills, distinguished, like my family members,
by their height.
A gentle metaphor then, if I might:
My eyes no longer battle with the Light.
Accepting, they move on.