The morning after the war was won,
I sat before the mirror awhile.
My face was like the frozen dial
of a vintage watch whose hands had spun 
 
their last, the space behind the dial
hollowed, stripped of gears, abandoned,
mourning. After the war was won,
I sat before the mirror. A long while 
 
passed. I idly thought of radium,
each doomed soul who had licked the vile
bright poison from her brush, her smile
eroding down to bleeding gums.
The morning after the war was won,
I sobbed before the mirror, wild.