The queen would not have needed
a mirror, if the king had reflected
with a warm smile in the mornings,
showing her she was more a light
to him than the rising of the sun
with his lustful, lidded eyes at night
his fingers whispering adoration
across her skin.
Who needs a mirror with eyes
like that—eyes that make you trust
your own bones, that know your form
is beautiful because it can dance.
She would not have sought
the jagged edges, the distorted image
the silvery lies.
One wonders what she saw in his gaze
to make her turn away,
turn to reflection.
One cannot blame her,
for every woman should have one
being to call her fairest
and without reservation
in any light.