STRANGER

I stare at her the way no one
should look at a stranger
I see the way her nose seems
always turned up
the pug of it
the way she grows
mustache
in spite of desire
the bags under her eyes
the tired that is more
than lack of sleep
I stare at her hair
gray, black, brown
some stray strands of
red and gold even
the nappiness of it
the way it dries out
and the hair on the floor
on her shoulder from
the combing
I stare at the darkened
places on her face, scars
from plucked hairs
keloids in the way black
skin keloids, the freckles
that sprinkle across
her face
I stare at her stomach
poking out even when she tries
to hold it in, the rivers of veins
that never laid back down
after the children she
carried in her womb
the moles on her arms
on her leg
I stare at her when I can
bear it; she does not
look like I imagined she would
at this age. I do not think 
she's beautiful no matter
how many times her
lover says she is
I stare looking for
something to love
anything to love
not just the mirror image
but the woman inside
and wonder why I am
such a stranger 
to myself

© Valerie Bridgeman
May 24, 2013