by Ashly Curtis
She’s not dead yet, but someday—
my fingers tremble at the thought,
performing my nightly ritual.
I dip my middle finger in the soft
white bowl and smear youth
on my cheeks, nose, forehead, chin,
stick out tongue at my reflection
in the glass, like she did at me
when I was her mirror.
For a brief moment, I call her
spirit into mine, and she rests
on my face like a warm mask.
Ashly Curtis is a part-time poet and book professional living in the Midwest. She is a poetry reader for Barstow & Grand and Co-Editor-in-Chief at The Green Light. You can find her work in twig, Barstow & Grand, the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets Calendar (2019, 2020), and Ghost City Review. She tweets @ashlurtis.