I've become someone I used to know,
eyeing myself across the room,
swearing my name starts with an "L,"
but it's not Lisa. I'm wracking my brain,
trying to figure out where I saw myself last --
at a party, the gym, The Sharp Edge?
Didn't I smoke a lot and wear black?

Didn't I dance in gay clubs,
churning with sweat, the music
all I needed to undress myself
down to the naked drum of my heart
for no one who cared? Didn't I
sleep with strangers? Didn't I
sleep alone a lot with my dog,
my sins, my bathroom floor death
wishes slippery as soap?

It'll come to me; gimme a second.
I think I'm the one who lifted up her shirt
on the first date, which wasn't a date,
but a drink. It's hard to tell because
sometimes I look fat and my hair
changes color all the time.
Or maybe I'm the girl with the moon
in her eyes, eyes that said I'm shining
just for you and then cried
when the night turned so black
that the sun gave up hope. No,
that's another girl. She's working
at the record store, buying CDs cheap,
hoarding memories to slow
the dark's drive to dawn.

Still, there's something so familiar
about the way I smile when my daughter
stretches her hands up to the history
of my face, saying hold you,
and like a mirror, I reach down to everything I know.

-- Leslie Anne McIlroy