Misdirection
It's a classic case of denial, I guess.
There are too many places to see
ourselves, and so I don't. I find a
picture of you and I, even the old
ones in which I recognize an echo
of myself, and you are the subject
I study, even when I am right there,
arm around you, I'm not. And when
I am projected live, big as life, in
some online meeting, the mirror of
myself up and juxtaposed to other
screens, I do not see me, so much
as a strange outline of me in the
clothing I remember I put on today,
a grey icon, anonymous, though I
still hear and love my own voice.
Even confronted with a bathroom
mirror, brushing my teeth, shaving
my face, I see only the one tooth,
the one patch of unlathered skin
as though I am merely peripheral,
a shadow, a foggy half-suggestion.
Otherwise, I am confronted with a
stranger in my house, a character
from a different story, another poem.
No comments:
Post a Comment