Mirror/Mausoleum for Two\Mirror
 
The stranger who was said to be my father
and Trophy III had had the wallpaper
ripped from his library-slash-den, then all
ten bedrooms, dressing nooks, walk-ins,
nooks, niches, halls, et cet.  It was something
of a shock to find oneself mirrored in  
floor-to-ceiling plate that reminded in some
way of the glass --plastic?- in a museum
that bars rope-holding children from
dismantling tyrannosaurus rex.  Mirrors
were tinted the fly-trap amber favored by
hoitsy shops.  You know, the kind where hip-
thrusting manikins suggesting less fat
than a conch shell leer in enigmatically
tricked windows.  Tint softened, but
the effect was glacial.  Brrrrrrrrrr,
I remember mouthing to my yawning
husband.  Colonial-crazy II has to be
spinning in her five-figure casket.  What?
The kitchen isn't mirrored?   Hell.
Why not have mirrors installed around
your topiaried lawn?    Careful, don't
stumble.   Bleed to death while emergency  
techs giggle  and straighten their hair.  Out!   
Which way is out??   Mental rehearsal:
Gotta fly back, I tell you?  Boss phoned.
Project/urgent/deadline/yata/ya.  Just time
for a quick peek at the library.   Cozy,
if that's the word.   Books cut glare, don't
you think?  (Inner monologue: 20-1, he goes
first.   She sells these books before he's cold.
Doesn't take a clairvoyant to see.)  
 
Nails does live to inherit -- surprise.  
Monday, funeral,  Tuesday,  eBay books.
After smoke and mirrors led to her
demise, good bet that all that reflected
were designer-crammed walk-ins,  wigs
on blank-faced Styrofoam, a box of rocks,
insurance insurance [sic] and blue chip
stocks.   A local artiste had  bookended
truncated quote Grecian quote columns
for vah-zez  and other "finds from Yoo-rop
and Ind-ya."  Blue john in the  fridge,
calorieless air and four fifths of vodka
in the freezer.    Couple of crystal
flutes so frosted over,  they don't reflect.
Shatter if anyone tries to thaw.  

(c) Phyllis Jean Green
February, 2009

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