I see my father’s face in the mirror,
stripping off the white mask that wraps
along his cheekbone, over his mouth,
and, chin jutted up, down his neck.

The river razor tap-taps the sink;
the ivory-handled brush swishes back
and forth in the cup, and every time
he turns the handle, the faucet squeaks.

I watch the steaming water fill the sink,
and when he splashes it on his face,
the mask dissolves into his waiting hands;
the towel turns on the wooden roller.

How I regret being a girl and never
being able to find myself this way,
to prove how steady I am,
how close to the edge I can come.