The Mirror

I reflect on this desperate note while waiting in the children's hospital. The desperate cry my son left cold as ice in his closed eyes after poison. Benches of blood. This is a wooden tragedy. Joyce & I walked home under the huge night thru a grand sweep and around midnight I scribble a letter to my sister, who is dying five minutes at a time:             You are the flower of confusion             coming up in the morning             of my love and             going tightly shut in the afternoon of             anger. Anger & bitterness.                                          I look forward to your resurrection....

While the carrots sang arias into the holy earth and the snowmen turned into bronze weathervanes, I underwent a removal, tearing my skin off me, plucking out the eyes like Ping-Pong balls, squashing the shriek of my heart like a phone off the hook — and as these phenomena occurred, a fool walked straight into         me. He was named Mr. Rabbit. My own voice spoke to people, anyone, friends, strangers on the street, saying, "I am Mr. Rabbit."  The flesh itself had become mad and at three mirrors this was confirmed. Next it was bad Friday and they nailed me up like a scarecrow and many gathered eating popcorn, carrying hymnals or balloons. They were three of us there, though they appeared normal. My ears, so pink like powder, were nailed. My paws, sweet as baby mittens, were nailed. And my two fuzzy ankles.  I said, "Pay no attention. I am        crazy." But some giggled and some knelt. My oxygen became tiny and blood...

Children we have not borne bedevil us by becoming themselves painfully sharp and unavoidable like a needle in our flesh. Coming home on the subway from a PTA meeting of minds committed like murder or suicide to their own private struggle a long-legged girl with a horse in her brain slumps down beside me begging to be ridden asleep for the price of a midnight train free from desire. Little girl on the nod if we are measured by the dreams we avoid then you are the nightmare of all sleeping mothers rocking back and forth the dead weight of your arms locked about our necks heavier than our habit of looking for reasons. My corrupt concern will not replace what you once needed but I am locked into my own addictions and offer you my help, one eye out for my own station. Roused and deprived your costly dream explodes into a terrible technicoloured laughter at my failure up and down across the aisle women avert their eyes as the other mothers who became usel...

(for Ken Irby)                               of all the places we walked bought or entered householding of, anything from that you wanted to know of the upright, no not even a flag, flagpole over the river, over one open place surrounded by trees this pointer its shadow moving hour by hour around it, trees up, start, cut thru the woods, river & then because we were late to meet you at the bus strangeness of hurrying there & idling back, drove you thru Astor & Delano land but didnt let on, didnt let on if we passed S_ _ _ _ _ _ _'s barn he shot himself in when the tortures bled dry, didnt tell you of the great red barn torn down one weekend we were at sea, didnt tell you of the sea, the mouths of it so variously articulate in me, of all my friends torn down in me, their voices one by one tuning out in despair of a...

In the offing: "Holy, holy— Anoint and sanctify." About the edges: "Pray, beseech, give alms, atone by suffering, Penance and repentance. "My fault, My gravest fault, My most momentous, impious, sinful moment." Seek absolution In the Absolute. Aristotle: "There is cause for alarm If either injustice or outrage virtue Has power."                 * * * Vengeance, retribution, Imprecation, malediction— "Lament, lament, But may the good conquer." Guilt through the doing of forbidden things, Guilt by forbearing to do forbidden things— And hope by grief to rid the self of grievances. Estrangement, defilement, sacrifice, Filth, evil, Each idiot, with his special idiom. I knew a man, well-heeled in sadness, And you would be surprised. A stinkeroo he was, and as a guide Exceptionally dirty, a pestilence In his offensiveness. Victim, martyr, guilt, wereguilt, Debt, redemption (that...

Now who could take you off to tiny life In one room or in two rooms or in three And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine You are? Not any woman. Not a wife. You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee Showing your leaping ruby to a friend. Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork Could you allow, for being made so free. A woman would be wise to think it well If once a week you only rang the bell. [From: Brooks, G. (1963) Selected Poems . New York: HarperPerennial, p9]

                               1 Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy - Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?                                2 He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them! - I am here.                                3 Grind away, moisten and mash up th...