By Ian Mullins
I wish I had that disease
whose name I can’t remember
where the sufferer looks in the mirror
but can’t recognise himself.
Yes, I know how a mirror works,
but something must be wrong
with the light, perhaps it’s picked up
some alien infection
during its journey from the sun.
Perhaps someone else
is wearing the face biology assigned me;
I might meet me on the street
and kiss myself on the cheek,
pick me up in a bar and fuck myself
crazy.
But the best thing
would be to wander like a word
with no meaning. If anyone challenged me
with a face they said was mine
I’d tell him I have no face, I have no name;
I’m not alive as you are
alive, chasing yourself down the street
as though you’ve dropped your wallet,
but no matter how fast you run
you’ll never catch yourself up.
Call this a disease? I call it being free.
