Even while she is singing,
her mask comes off—the cheeks,
the brow, the lips still moving
even after they’ve been discarded
on the tray beside the brown hair.
Beneath that face, another face.
Its lips sing the same quiet song.
The mirror is not surprised.
Into the new face, the scalpel slips
and the next layer pulls away.
Eyebrows, nose bridge, chin, jaw.
And the lips keep singing
as they away they fall.
The woman is no less herself.
She is not who she thought
she was. She is being sung.
The mirror lets slip
the passing layers.