“Has anyone loved so cruelly” asked Narcissus to the trees surrounding the place where his doom fell. Hot tears fell slowly from the eyes of the wraith which lurked below the mirror pool until they met the silvery waves of the surface. So close they were to meeting his own tears. So hot they were they burned the trees surrounding him, charring them. But the trees were yew and it is a hardy tree. It is used to death. It is death, its very being toxic like the thing that stares at us from the mirror. Yet a yew tree will grow new trunks if it touches the ground, it will regenerate. Ceaseless like the sound echoing within the meniscus of the mirror. All mirrors are liars. False liquid, false eyes rimmed with soot and grime of lost sleep. That's not your hair messed up and refusing to cooperate with your fingers scraping through thousands of tangled follicles. It's not you with the cracked face and hot breath, two-day shadow and lips like the desert opening into heavy breaths in your heavy chest. It's not you who is trapped in the gap between the reflection and the world of the living. Not you stuck in Narcissus' dark pool, not you who's the drooping, sodden flower with petals brushing the surface. Plunge thine hair under, take a breath, push it out. Take another, push it out. Again, again. It's your mantra, charm and ward. Hold it closer than hate holds love.
To make a poem as violent as a mirage
30 x 30 cm
Glass and cyan pigment ink
2021
