The Looking Glass.(Poem)

 
THE LOOKING GLASS 
 
   It's neither here nor there 
   the way this scalloped mirror clones a past, 
   the silver seeping black 
   as the slipped retina of a closing view 
   or Arp soup lapping the trapped room's 
   plague of days. The lamp's askew. 
 
   Elbow to elbow round the rosewood table, 
   family sits to its meal of soul: 
   vol-au-vents, devils on horseback, Us. 
   We sip the wine and pass the salver, 
   each touch shallow atoms deep; 
   edge is where we meet and cancel it. 
 
   The light's not kind tonight. 
   Up the grey walls our shadows merge to Them: 
   Grandmother's nose, your father's neck, 
   hopeless at maths, his skill, her wit, 
   something strange around the eyes. 
   We are set to the table's glistening surface, 
 
   silver, crystal, mother-of-pearl: 
   Ma's butter knife, Aunt Maggie's clotted lace. 
   The candles stretch their modest rapture. 
   Talk congeals. There's no crest 
   for ongoing here, sweet cousins, accessories 
   must serve the gap--pickle fork, cruet, memory 
      scrap: 
 
   "Remember the leather-bound Grimm's 
   in Grandpa's glass bookcase?" 
   The old one gleeful with drink forgets 
   herself, ...