Reflections

 

This may have been a king’s mirror,

while only obsidian polished to a shine.

Not powerful locally, did he big

himself up with a mini-me, the shrine

a walk away on a Sun God day

to favour the stay of his long bloodline,

the unsettling mask cupped in his hands,

its dark stone flecked with white,

while the people clapped a way into ritual

through the long bright of his own light

he not responding to human sound,

only he perpetual by right,

so the deep-lipped guise should inform us?

Quite. Or no. We cannot know,

whichever world centre or direction

we long regard. What’s on show

now are bee masks, V.’s mask, death masks,

and those fragile bits we labour to sew.