“Mirror in the Mirror,” after Arvo Pärt

Sometimes I catch myself writing 
poems about writing poems, 
as if anyone would care 
but another poet.

Like M. C. Escher drawing 
a hand drawing a hand, etc. 
Or tossing a pebble into a pool 
and watching the ripples expand.

As a child I would take Mom's hand 
mirror and hold it up to the larger 
dresser mirror, just to see how 
many me's I could squeeze  

into the frame, each one 
shrinking until forced 
into this person 
I became.