Reflections of Glass
Her mirrored face reflected grief
and – in the way that some mirrors do –
twisted it (it's a trick of the light).
And when I came to face her, I looked
and I saw nothing and I realised that,
for her, I was not there, as if I were
glass.
30 September 1989
It’s a horrible feeling, someone looking straight through you. Had this poem had a later date than this I’m sure I could’ve suggested a few reasons why I might’ve written it but I’ve no idea what occasion prompted this, if any. I’m assuming the poem’s autobiographical. It’s a mistake all readers make especially when the poet uses the first person. Odd that when novelists do the same that’s
not the first thing we imagine.
Because novels are fiction. And what are poems then? Do we assume poems—especially those that sound like confessions—are non-fiction? Are we forgetting how much we, the readers, contribute to the overall meaning?
