If my reflection were not glass but flesh:
And I leaned in to touch my nose to nose—
My mouth to mouth, my breath intense and close,
My face would brush my face with tickling lash—
Would I kiss myself? And would my lips
Kiss me? And would I like it? Would there be
A thrill of sympathy? And would I feel
A tingling in my toes and fingertips?
No. I’d be a cold, indifferent lover.
Where is ecstasy in imitation?
To join in recognition is no joy.
In my impudent imagination
Lurks a savage vision of an Other.
Ovid knew: Narcissus was a boy.




A Woman Holding a Mirror