Scrying

Scrying

Outside my morning window
a mourning dove is calling.
I check the bathroom mirror
and find the same crow's feet
and age spots beneath my
myopic blue-grey eyes.
I have no idea how I got here.
The Japanese believe
you wear the face
of one you loved in the past.
My soul pod must be small.
No ancient kings or queens,
just Slavic peasant cheekbones.
I didn't realize I had a blind spot,
till they (and life) blindsided me.