Pardon the glaring mirrors, blinding sheets
of two-dimensionality in which
the glassy, glazed self, surface skimming, meets
the flattened, leadened, inner, under bitch.
They show what they must bitterly consume –
are tongues that lick whatever dirt is cast
against them, that reflect unthinkingly, loom
unwillingly unwelcome, first to last,
like mute Cassandras over ostrich lives.
Do not throw stones. Hurl boomerangs or drape
a veil between you and the view that wives
you to your worst. Forgive them, though they gape,
unawed and unashamed: they are compelled
to take it in, to hold what you have helled.
Poem, copyright © 2004 by Evie Shockley
Appearing on From the Fishouse with permission
Audio file, copyright © 2004, From the Fishouse