Mary Tisera

pieces

every day I feel something    new
falling, falling away from me
as leaves flee the autumn branch
in    the dying time

first comes modesty
then control
of simple   emotions-laughter, tears
all mixed-up and indistinguishable

next    follows couth
as I continue to embarrass
my family-mostly my mother
who lectures on the virtue of silence

i'm not even    speaking about
the physical degradation
that I see in the semi-magic    mirror-
that never tells a lie

this year alone I count
the losses-my poor fractured
canines, turning me slowly but surely
into a    gap-toothed bitch, monstrous to behold

in addition, my once exquisite hair
reduced to a mish-mash of brown,
gray, and the myriads of    dye sown
in place as a nod to former vanity

i reflect on this    tally
as my secretary prepares me
for a special occasion
painting my    nails rouge as the finishing touch

i'm afraid, like Van Gogh
i'll lose pieces
of myself with each and every
fleeting day

Mary Tisera wrote her first story, "Demons," when she was nine, after her father left and grandmother died of cancer in the same year. She served a brief stint in the army before marriage. After two sons, she left his abusive ass and headed back north to get her college degree, but in 1999 suffered a near-fatal stroke. She now resides at Inglis House and takes great pride in her work.