A Relative Stranger

“What I would like to clarify from the mystery: the neo-narcissism of a practical humanity. […]Does this seem impossible? We oppose morals and other loves to this picture. However the silvering of mirrors thickens. […]The myth of Narcissus is everywhere. It haunts us. [F]rom the fatal day when the unwrinkled wave was caught. […]Now we should fix the image in time as in space, seize the motions completed—finally surprise ourselves from behind. [W]hat worries[…]the voyeur the most is[…]his own gaze.”

— Claude Cahun (Claude Cahun, “Self-Love,” Stanzas 1, 3, 4, 6, and 8, translated by Mary Ann Caws, in “Claude Cahun (1894–1954)” of French Love Poems: Edited by Tynan Kogane, published at New York by New Directions Publishing Corporation in 2016; pages 37 and 39. Parallel text in French.)

“He was like one of Picasso’s great sterile athletes, who brood hopelessly on pink sand, staring at veined marble waves.”

— Nathanael West (Nathanael West, “[Chapter] 8,” in The Day of the Locust of The Day of the Locust and Miss Lonelyhearts, published at London by Vintage Books in 2012; page 34.)

“Formed from clay, we sought a fire
that could finish us.”

— Ama Codjoe (Ama Codjoe, “Marigolds of Fire,” Part 4, Stanza 1, Lines 2–3 (Lines 35–36 overall), in “[Part] I.” of Bluest Nude, published at Minneapolis, Minnesota by Milkweed Editions in 2022; page 7.)

                         i.

Assassins and adulterers,
follow me through
exile to my
eclipse and return,

cloaked by the
heart on my
sleeve, the setting
autumn sun showers

in power-out(r)aging pouting
shadow those shown
its yawn when
swallowed, thrown through

the gate of
a narrowed gaze
(who believes eyes
blue as these

anyway?), casting the
antagonist as catalyst,
my reflection breaks
apart with a

                         ii.

shaking, shrieking voice
of broken glass,
asks without taking
into account the

question’s mess, whether
it was worth
it, this conquest?
This disastrous voyage

past these walls
he never lets
enemies, not even
traitors, worse as

me ever trespass?
Indebted, invested pursuing
an illusion too
perfect to pass

up, that you
just passed through
pissing off my
ego? (What more

                         iii.

can tears even
say?) Needing an
accomplice, a mirror
a relative stranger

seeming a compromise
nearer the source
than any other,
this theft of

attention repays with
scheming mind its
own blank expression,
makes away, in

due course, with
what version of
mine the me
I divorce serves

as martyr to
the purpose of
paving silver my
escape’s grinning course.