dressing the part

she sits blue velvet cushioned
in the silver oval reflection

pinning her hair into an effortless chignon

listening to whispered revelations
filtered through david bowie’s singing voice
coming from the lips of the looking glass

as her piano fingers turn their attention
to tying a bow at the nape of her neck
lifting the bodice
of the white suggestion of a dress

it’s mirrored words fall amidst her perfume bottles

be careful my dear one

he could be your more tearful ted hughes

…a less crucibled arthur miller