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INTO YOUR ANGRY MIRRORS
i.
There's a spider
on my bathroom wall—
could be a brown recluse,
but how do I check its belly
to be sure?
Roll over, little spider,
let me see if you have any
distinguishing marks.
He
doesn't roll over.
I let him go.
I'll find the web later
by accident,
or not at all.
ii.
I
have been
crying in the shower again—
I've been
imagining your death
because this is what I do.
I don't know if it's because
I'm sadomasochistic
or sentimental,
but I've already eulogized
everyone I love.
I
know what I'll sing
at my father's wake,
and the revenge I'll take
on my brother's killers.
But you'll be the hardest
because no one will recognize me at all.
I
still haven't met your family,
and your friends only know me as
another friend.
They won't understand
why I am wracked with sobs
when they ask me politely to say a few words.
And they won't understand
when those few words
turn into a hundred
then a thousand—
how
you said you'd live to be 103,
the color of your eyes in that gray sweater
the way you looked at 6 AM.
I
know what you're thinking,
I'm morbid, I'm sick, I'm strange,
I'm dark—
if I love you so much,
how could I wish you dead?
But
don't be alarmed.
This is only control.
This is how
I measure my love.
If I think of you dead,
do I care enough to cry?
iii.
I
am not a crier
by nature,
but I am sobbing
tonight in my shower
so hard
that I cannot sob.
I
can only stand
with my fists pressed into the porcelain,
mouth open,
water running in.
I am terrified
of a number of things tonight.
I'm
scared that I'm finally old enough
but I'm still missing my chance.
Scared that I'm too old
and it's already gone.
I'm scared of the illness
brewing in my eyes,
scared that I'll do nothing
but worry about money
for the rest of my life.
All
the obvious reasons,
the usual players
are haunting my dreams tonight.
But there are new guest cameos
by palefaced doctors,
men with razors uttering sharp demands,
the secretary of defense,
his jowled face and hand
like a talon
in the AP photo
as he forecasts death like a weatherman.
I
hate him
I hate these men behind the men
who want a good spin,
lick their lips at the chance to
scare us into electing them again—
"there's a monster in your bed, honey,
why not come sleep here in mine?"
I
am scared and I am thinking of death,
whether to keep putting it off or to
rush headlong before my turn.
My friend always tells me,
wait and let them fire you first.
But it's the wait I hate,
and I never wanted to become one of those people
who is simply reduced to broadcasting
"I am scared and I am thinking of death,"
like a nervous, bleating telephone
whose cord needs a yank.
But
I am
and I am
and tonight I'm scared
that I'll wake up to find
my island gone
my home in bits
my love in the heavens
and some necktied fuckface on TV
telling me I have nothing to fear
but fear itself.
So
now hear this:
Tonight, I retaliate
against the fear you create,
against low flying jets
and cops giving me the evil eye.
I eat your fear for breakfast
lunch and dinner
and puke it up onto your slick
businessman shoes.
I fuck your fear
your delegations, your negotiations
your no trial riots,
your sleep-tight-if-you're-white
National ID card policy—
"Hi! My name is:"
DEATH.
I am your bomb,
the misfit you created,
the weakling,
the rubber leg
solidified
into bones made of fear,
hardening into rage.
This cold climate
may be armegeddon,
but I will not be your horseman.
I can no longer differentiate
between the devil who creates
and you who perpetuate
this terror
this fear
this vile taste
in my throat -
you did not give birth to this beast,
but you raise it as your own
laquered in red ribbons and fright,
speaking eulogies in every language
You
have sent this creature
for me to tame,
sent it crawling down my walls
to see how I'd react
and with your poison in my head
I no longer mourn the dead.
I am ability. Agility.
Fearful fearlessness in action.
I will not descend
into your angry mirrors
and I have no fear
because I am fear
and I refuse to do your dirty work
you can kill your own spiders now.
Meagan Brothers' chapbook, entitled 1978, was
published in 2001 by CaféMo
Press. When not writing, rabblerousing, or practicing
political activism in the shower, Meagan may be found
with her belly against whatever stage Patti Smith
happens to be writhing on.
More of Meagan's work may be found at
Poetz 2000. |