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STILL LIFE, WITH MIRRORS
if you’re going to
send me something, send me a key —- I shall
find the door to where it fits, if it takes me
the rest of my life
Bob Dylan: Tarantula There are more doors than there are
keys, & only rarely do we find
a corresponding set. The world or life or
living — whatever springtime name we care
to call it by — is like a room of mirrors,
in which we wait, either for Cocteau
or for the mercury to melt, so we
can see which way is out. Or maybe in. To break a mirror would only mean
more pieces to pick up; & I already know
the fragmented picture of me they would
duplicate. Coming down off a threeyear
curing course of methadone that supposedly
will end the drugged decade that went before
has made me too damned conscious of the
myriad aspects of my self. The final symptoms of withdrawal have forced me to
reflect, to try & separate which shards
of past possessed some flash of insight
& which were merely manufactured by the flash
when heroin hits the brain. Meanwhile I wait,
& watch the mirrors / watching me. Somewhere
beyond them I can hear a woman weeping. &
shortly after, someone come knocking at her door.
© Mark Young
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