Nearsight
Zoë Hitzig
It is with his mirror he reconstructs
the passage
of time.
The warden walks from the north
wall to the south
one time every hour. Cannot
hear his approach—too loud
with the flushing, the
slamming echoes
of the two—but can
see it in mirrors
if held here like this
yes, only if you are outside
can you look in, only with
a mirror can you look out.
The forcing of myopia
through the frosting of
glass windows.
It is with his mirror he waits, thinks,
“is there such a thing
as normal when I am
a person, people have teeth,
and I am not entitled to them?”
Just wants teeth to not
hiss when speaks, so can
be heard, understood.
They say you will
die anyway, what need
you teeth for—to atone,
to whet a blade for carving?
It is with his mirror he shows
a creation: thirty-two gamepieces,
and a board. Carved of soap,
dyed with pen.
It is with his mirror he counts backwards,
inducts backwards,
comes to the chill
that comes of it.
It is with his mirror he sees a nick
and blood. Cut himself
shaving because the present
is closer to him
than he could see
is closer to him
than to anyone
else I know. It absorbs
him as a blanket
facing wind. There is
no wind here
nor any toy or string to wind, find
wound. But there is a wound where
the selves in mirror
are closer than they appear.