Who am I? He asks, as he stares,
Unawares in the clear cut glass
Of a window, or a mirror, at a face,
His face, her face, disgrace, hands out
On cold glass, window panes that separate
And connect two disparate ideas: personality
And image, appearance and feeling.
It was familiar, the face, the nose, the eyes,
But separate, apart, unaligned, misconstrued,
Distorted, not true, fictional, exact, unwilling to
Bend or mold in the way he, she, bent and stretched
And expanded beyond the shapes of the window,
The mirror, the pool and the liar.
It was sharp and cold with the punch, and the strike,
The blood and the cry, with the red and the silver,
The dull back, silver front, cascade, serenade, freedom
and violation, that clattered, clanged, cut skin and cut ties.
This time the connection was true, not of face and image,
But she, he, they, they felt and saw blood and then felt and
Knew pain; the first truth of the window, the mirror; the