This afternoon at half-past three
I saw myself as I made tea
Through the bright, distinctive bend
Of a coffee spoon’s back end.
The word I use is not ‘reflection’
Rather some kind of projection
Of a person yet to blossom
Like a cracking boll of cotton.
Grinning, silver-gilded through
The cutlery— as spectres do—
Appeared myself at fifty-five
Devoid of life but quite alive.
My contemporary body
(The corporeal and un-contorted)
Shuddered at the impure image
Of this frightful, fated visage.
Why should I start, if such a face
Would— in two scores— be commonplace?
Has he not lived my lives foreseen?
Do I not yearn for where he’s been?
Through the flatware, our fates merging
All his history’s roads diverging
Avenues of self-expression,
Glamour; lust— tasteful obsession.
I marvelled at his paths’ pearlescence
All potential gains and lessons
Before me, slews of selves refracting
To prismatic smithereens.
Perhaps I would be better suited
To a life seated and suited.
Thoughts on tap but thinking muted—
Madcap dreams left spayed and neutered.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present and emerging. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.