The Stare

In the middle of a rush hour street flowing
through my head,

I was caught by a silver hook

of a plain mirror



For the first time ever
I saw 
the woman with a man’s face

and the man jabbing at her angular face contours

trying to escape



I couldn’t move

My eyes widened more than the street

and its traffic tumbled in

Honking vehicles swept in, tall towers fell on bent knees

and collapsed headfirst into their depths 



“Don’t cut your hair,” An old woman appears through a crease

“I won’t”, A boy runs his fingers through his hair, my hair


Those eyes

wonderfully wide

are now boats

My mother rows past me, her brown hair trails
among the lily blooms



The Stare

There are fingers reaching out to touch her

The boy, the girl and the old woman

My eyes are arrested by a seamless merger


The mirror cracks
, its work is done
My face swings wildly between body-shaped identities

thrust upon it by voices
chanting from my blood

and comes to rest 

knitting back the anatomy
disgorging the swallowed vision

till perfect calm ensues


Stilled by the curved lines of raised eyebrows
and lips that refuse to end a self kiss,
I become a stare

seeing through the farce everywhere