by Cynthia Anderson

The shine of chrome forms a mirror,
the essence of surprise, as I lean over the sink
and find myself doubled, with no more substance
than a passing cloud. The woman I see there
has a face intensified by worry and age,
yet a torso that whispers out of time,
miraculously youthful through a trick
of perception. Outside, the low roar
in the pines tells me the wind is up—
a sound I know intimately, like the pounding
of blood in my body, a sound I could listen to
forever, and would, if given the chance—
but, having only the moment, I grab my camera,
hold it over my face, and click.

IMAGE: “Multiple self-portraits in the skin of a faucet” by Guy Ricketts. Prints available at

Cynthia Anderson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Cynthia Anderson lives in the high desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poetry books include In the Mojave, Shared Visions, and Shared Visions II. She is co-editor of the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens.

Visit her at cynthiashidesertblog and