The first time, I was playing hide
and seek, barely old enough to understand
the point of the game.  I ran, wailing with glee,
into the bathroom and slammed the door,
climbing from the toilet seat to the sink,
teetering, scanning the room for the best
secret place.  I remember my hand, pressed
against the cool, silvered glass of the mirror;
I looked right past the other little girl
to the room behind her.  Somehow, it seemed
more secret, more inviting than
the duplicate where I stood; there were spots
just out of sight, I was sure, where I
would never be caught.  When my brothers
burst in, the door crashing against
the opposite wall, all they found
was a dripping faucet, and my mother yelling
from the living room not to make
so much noise.  

I don’t remember what it was like, at all;
I’ve tried to recollect, but who remembers details
over a lifetime?  It’s been ten years, and for most
of that I thought it was a dream, a fantasy,
like having an imaginary friend or
talking to dolls.  

Two days ago, it happened again, or I should say,
it started happening.  I’m still figuring out
exactly how it all works, and what the rules
and boundaries are, but I’ve been through the mirror
and back again twenty-three times now.
I don’t feel any different, but I know
I’m not just dreaming, or crazy.  

If you’re wondering,
there’s no Wonderland back there.  
There isn’t even a proper
parallel world, no other Mom and
brothers, no other me to hide from:
just a sudden shift in perspective
from front to back.  The first time,
I barely noticed until the door opened
enough that my brother David
could stick his fat face in; I opened my mouth
to scream at him to get out, and was startled
first, to find that I couldn’t breathe
(there isn’t really air inside, though
I can’t seem to suffocate, either)
and then when he said my name
once, like a question, staring blankly
at where I should be, and then
disappeared again, yelling to Mom
that he didn’t know where I was.  
I reached out my trembling hand,
blinked; and there I was,
lungs full again, racing after him
to tell Mom he’d been peeping
when I had the door shut.

That was the first day.  When I got back
to my room, the door closed, lying face-up
across the bed, I was suddenly afraid.
What if I’d gotten stuck over there?  What if
(I still worried then) I’d run out of air?
What if David had come in and used
the bathroom, and I had to watch?  
There was a mirror on two poles
above my dresser; I snuck over
without looking and flipped it
to face the wall.  It was twelve hours
before, needing to pee so badly
I couldn’t walk, I went into
the bathroom again.

There it was, waiting for me, seeming
to shimmer like water in the sunlight
that was refracted through the frosted
window; in the living room, voices
were raised, and it just seemed so inviting
to slip inside; no sooner thought, than
done, but then I jumped back out, to
lock the door, and for a third time,
flashed inside.  That time,
I stayed in for a full half-hour,
silent, breathless, unable
even to feel my heart beat
until I surfaced, shaking my head
as my eardrums popped,
and the fight was over.  I tiptoed
into the living room, wondering
if I’d come back to the wrong place,
but there they were, on the couch,
watching TV, not even looking up
until I crossed in front of the set.  

I spent most of the rest of the day
in the bathroom, lying to Mom that I felt
sick (I don’t know why, but the mirror
in my room didn’t work the same),
getting used to the sensation
of hiding in plain sight, of  being
confined to a rectangle of
reflective space, of safety
where the only face I have
to show is your own.  

The only hard part of it all
is having to look at myself
every time.