i
It’s no coincidence
this is a used
furniture warehouse.
I enter with you
and become a mirror.
Mirrors
are the perfect lovers,
that’s it, carry me up the stairs
by the edges, don’t drop me,
that would be back luck,
throw me on the bed
reflecting side up,
fall into me,
it will be your own
mouth you hit, firm and glassy,
your own eyes you find you
are up against closed closed
ii
There is more to a mirror
than you looking at
your full-length body
flawless but reversed,
there is more than this dead blue
oblong eye turned outwards to you.
Think about the frame.
The frame is carved, it is important,
it exists, it does not reflect you,
it does not recede and recede, it has limits
and reflections of its own.
There’s a nail in the back
to hang it with; there are several nails,
think about the nails,
pay attention to the nail
marks in the wood,
they are important too.
iii
Don’t assume it is passive
or easy, this clarity
with which I give you yourself.
Consider what restraint it
takes: breath withheld, no anger
or joy disturbing the surface
of the ice.
You are suspended in me
beautiful and frozen, I
preserve you, in me you are safe.
It is not a trick either,
it is a craft:
mirrors are crafty.
iv
I wanted to stop this,
this life flattened against the wall,
mute and devoid of colour,
built of pure light,
this life of vision only, split
and remote, a lucid impasse.
I confess: this is not a mirror,
it is a door
I am trapped behind.
I wanted you to see me here,
say the releasing word, whatever
that may be, open the wall.
Instead you stand in front of me
combing your hair.
v
You don’t like these metaphors.
All right:
Perhaps I am not a mirror.
Perhaps I am a pool.
Think about pools.
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