Mirror at Shalott
I showed you the world so you might know
what it was like for me: to never see yourself, to subsist
on a diet of images of others, elsewhere.
Your curse was mine—I didn’t build
the tower on the island in the river
or hang myself before you there. I don’t have hands.
I couldn’t pass the time with weaving.
So I liked to watch you work the loom,
your tapestry a sort of group portrait
in which I resembled every shady character.
When you realized you weren’t trapped,
that two mirrors opposite each other only make it seem
there’s no way out, you didn’t spare me
a second thought. (Thanks, Lancelot!)
I missed the boat completely. But wasn’t left lonely—
when you brought the curse down so hard
upon yourself you shattered me, “I” became we.
We’ll be stuck in the tower forever, but we have a memory:
even more of us, in still smaller pieces, a place
the air is fresh and brine, a shore, our view opening
onto a body that daily recognizes itself in the sky.
