Monday, February 24, 2020

The Walls Are All Mirrors

Fish in bright and weary colors
trapped in glass
drift in scheduled silence
feeding on each other.

The Walls are all Mirrors

We are voyagers, discoverers
of the not-known,

the unrecorded;
we have no map;

possibly we will reach haven,

From down the hall she stares at me,
vacant eyes and violent face falling down towards modesty,
away from memory.
The walls are all mirrors here,
I am Hamlet in an O’Neill play;
family is everything.

Mother floats towards me from a mirror
motionless as a specter and silent

nothing moves from her but reflected blue waves
she waves and floats in her ocean,
She is a woman, and a Cancer
and at home most when drowning.

When I lived on the sand I burnt my feet
in the white hot gaze of the sun
mother or father would call from the shoreline
shouting Hold on tight! to anyone but me,
they would drown themselves in effigy
waiting for the moments to come.

Too pure for them all,
I burnt into the sand,
rising from myself into the sky.

I drift down the mirrored halls in white
drawing stares wherever I look
vile glances, veiled glances
glances full of sorrow or of woe,
confused and determined and tired,
always so tired.
The telephone has been ringing for some time now,
on one end I hear the static of the human voice
which should be saying
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
just by hearing your precious voice
but there is only a phonetic drone
strung together in random patterns;
the receiver hangs from the gallows of the nightstand

as I lie crucified on my bed
I condense into clouds
and rain in resurrection,
going on beyond suicide

the static drone is now a steady wail
the receiver is no longer dead but screams in agony
as if its hanging were a torture.
I replace the receiver to strangle the voice
but it continues and in these walls someone is screaming
and tearing their hair like

blue and white lights from a blown Christmas bulb
and a radio in my mind just out of station
the glass across my arms like a river
stained by viscous fluids
pumped  by hand or machine,

The river ran past our house to the skies,
an escalator to infinity,
a river of Babel
and I was pulled free a moment too early,
I knew what lay at the mouth.
We moved that same day,

a house in the suburbs with red Kool-aid and He Men,
1984 and my family was Big Brother,
watching every toy, every boy and girl
calling, calling, every hour that same drone,
static meaninglessness.
Drifting past apathy into mirrors
where I stare in anger
white mirrors reflecting words, light

I alight on a branch flitting like a bird,
I am a swallow, raped and silent
watching with terror for an in-law,
someone who comes as a friend,
the state is my spouse, doctors its children,
jealous of everything I have,
sweating in white and mirrored halls to stab me once again
to bring on the opiate dreams of fevers, of terrors
I run only to become weary

She is staring at me again,
silver and white in the mirror
alone she is approached by smiling and familiar faces;
family is everything.

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