A modern woman’s mirror is complex.
She’s told the image should show firmer fist.
Each muscle flexed and ready to resist,
Prepared to show which is the stronger sex.

Indeed, the looking glass is quite complex.
They scrutinize her shiny twin by list.
And thereby scan the woman in their midst.
The bright, deflected gaze never objects.

So when I look, I wonder, will I see
A forceful face, straight posture bouncing back,
A riveting revolutionary?
Of what will she be the epitome?
Or, eyes closed, in a mirror velvet black
Choose I to spy, in depth, a truer me?