Patrick Lawler

 

Freud with a Picture of Teiresias Finds Dora with a Picture of Cassandra

 

When I wake, glass is all around me.
Millefiori glass. Venetian glass. Glass
with thin vein-like cracks. Glass like
the breath of an anorexic.
               Glass like the brains
of deep-sea fish. Glass like language.
Glass like belief. Glass filling the room.

Glass like echoes. Glass like the language
of aboriginal people. Glass from the mothering
caves of memory. Glass like swollen objects
that have been misplaced in dreams:
Birthmarks and terrariums.

Glass like the uterus of a saint. Glass

like the sewn language of memory. Glass ready
to break into a mosaic. Glass like a body of someone
touched. Glass like an indelible language.

Glass like the memory the body has
of places that have been touched.

Glass filled with twisted light. Glass so fragile
it breaks when I think. Glass that cuts into flesh.
Glass that grows more dangerous
with every step. Glass that sees everything
with its shattered eyes. Glass like a fantastic
plant with fruit that will make us transparent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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