Friday, 15 November 2013

We, not Elektra

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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