The Angles of the Mirror

There are angles in the mirror
that he haunts--virtual image
from Dachau, cheeks gaunt,
shy, perhaps, in apparitions
he jumps in, out of sight.
He also hides in a camera’s lens,
fleeting only till I perceive him
frozen in a pose like mine.
I'm unsure his purpose is fright.
Still, as for me, I’m in flight.

A terror grips me, the image rips me
for it shows my body’s future:
slough. It is not that he is Death--
no mask, no cape, no scythe.
Worse, this devil has my eyes
and they lock upon their own, their source.
I see his pleading, begging, bargaining
phantasmal countenance of loss.

We may meet one day
though I must choose--
in fact, it would behoove me
to face this reflected fellow,
befriend him fast with all my voice--
make him laugh and learn,
love and yearn, hang on till…
the battle lost…
we will lock eyes, smile, merge and jump
out of sight, out of light…
out of dust.

Ron Hudson, 26 September 2006 12:54 am


Author's note: I found this appropriate for the upcoming Halloween season. Soon I will need a mask to make myself less ghoulish, but I am lucky now to be passing through a phase where only I and old friends who rarely see me can discern the extent of my wasting.

Categories: poetry HIV/AIDS HIV AIDS wasting+syndrome