Not
for a father, no,
nor
the time-transplanted eyes
which
watch on Windows Media,
nor
for marks or carny rubes
or
peep-show anchorites:
this
is and is not show,
is/is-not
earnest, mat is mirror,
diptych-ground
where furies fight
off
resolution. Whose arm? Thigh?
Whose
cry of trapped frustration?
Whose
flesh by fingers reddened?
Who
is losing?
Who’s
Heel? Who’s Babyface?
Who’s
Self? Who’s Other?
Who’s
hammering, who taps?
Shall
I be Mother?
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