If she only had a mirror, maybe she’d know Something, she didn’t know what, but something important, Something like knowing your skin and you were alive On a good day, something as drenched as sleep, As wise as sleep, as piercing as the bee’s dagger. But she’d never know it unless she could get a mirror And they’d never get a mirror while they were hiders. They were bound to be hiders as long as the war kept on. Pop was that way. She remembered roads and places. She was seventeen. She had seen a lot of places, A lot of roads. Pop was always moving along. Everybody she’d ever known was moving along. —Dusty wagons full of chickens and children, Full of tools and quilts, Rising Sun and Roses of Sharon, Mahogany dressers out of Grandmother’s house, Tin plates, cracked china, a couple of silver spoons, Moving from State to State behind tired, scuffed horses Because the land was always better elsewhere.