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Self Portrait at 4 AM
And what help is the mirror? The
mirror
is of no help at all, and neither is the water
I splashed into my eyes trying to silence
the sting and redness
there. Help, I have
lost myself again. Night, morning, whatever.
I have seen this time so many times:
the wards quiet now
except for the monitors
and their slow, steady beeping that matches
the bodies at rest. Sleep. I have been trying
to do just that. But in
the call room mirror,
I cannot find myself. Those are not my eyes,
and the face is so clinical, the jaw suddenly
that of a prison guard,
the mouth ready to
sound out the very word clinic. Who is
this man staring at me, the skin green
under the fluorescent
lights, the bitter almonds
of his eyes now replaced by fear? Who was it
that wrote the best place to sight fear is the eyes?
Who knows. I can’t
remember anything
other than the fact I have to check on 231’s
mental status every 45 minutes. The mirror
is of no use. It lies,
dirty and spattered
with toothpaste and beard stubble and crud.
It lies. That man staring at me is not my friend.
That man wants to hurt
me. He has
hurt me before. I have hurt myself.
God damn it, there is no soap in the dish.
In the Chen Style
1
The body remembers the Form, by which
I mean my body remembers the Form.
2
Within a stand of pines, I sink like a
stone.
3
The arms, my arms, recall the slicing
motion
of hand and upturned palm. I am here
to stand my ground. I am here, pretending,
to remember.
4
And blood keeps repeating its songs
in my ears. Same songs, over and over.
Blood runs roughshod in my chest.
5
And my arms remember. Even my legs
remember.
6
And slow is the stone sinking at the
edge of the field.
Slow, the old books falling from the shelves and
the light drawing dust through the air.
7
And the body sounds a lot like Sting
today, sings:
A lesson once learned, so hard to forget.
8
But I am dim, darling, and I
cannot remember a thing.
9
I run through the yard yelling:
Brother tree. Brother hawk. Brother grass!
I do this because it is so unlike me.
10
And the words I cannot remember?
Oh, I find them.
11
They come back with each movement of
the Form:
Cloud hands; The World; Wind in trees; Flower in its
bed.
12
I call a piece of toast, Sally. I name
the statue
on the terrace, Becky. Words, just words.
I am here to forget each and every thing you taught me.
The Second Omen: Spring
One refuses to hold the other’s hand.
One pours wine and misses the glass.
Signs sent by a lesser god again and again
to no avail. That the body is mostly water,
this we could agree upon. All else was
less
than palatable. I said I loved you, too.
In this way, the heart lies, too.
The dogwoods bloom; their lies, like mine,
gorgeous and capable of seduction.
And outside, the vines kept twisting and twisting…
Yes, outside, the vines kept twisting and twisting,
gorgeous and capable of seduction.
The dogwood’s blooms are lies like
mine.
In this way, the heart lies, too.
Palatable? I said I loved you, too.
This we could agree upon. All else was less,
to no avail. The body is still mostly
water.
Signs. Lesser gods. Again and again,
one pours wine and misses the glass,
one refuses to hold the other’s hand.
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