My Mirror

There is a mirror in my room Less like a mirror than a tomb, There are so many ghosts that pass Across the surface of the glass.

When in the morning I arise With circles round my tired eyes, Seeking the glass to brush my hair My mother's mother meets me there.

If in the middle of the day I happen to go by that way, I see a smile I used to know — My mother, twenty years ago.

But when I rise by candlelight To feed my baby in the night, Then whitely in the glass I see My dead child's face look out at me.