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I am not cruel, only truthful —The eye of a little god, four-cornered.Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over.Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me, she has drowned a young girl, and in me, an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish."Mirror" By Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)"Where am I? It is so dark! Why is it so dark? And, that voice! Mon Dieu! Who is that, that voice ... so harsh, so ugly, so full of hate! Wait, I know that voice, oh no!"Christine shuffled carefully along in the pitch dark. She cautiously skated one. I went back to Aunt Natalie's house straight after the funeral and got talking to a friend of my Aunt's. I guess he was about 50. He'd been a co-worker at the office where she worked, and I suspected that he might also have been a lover. Aunt Natalie had never married. He certainly seemed very upset by her loss, and as we talked on the front terrace of her house he took my hand and I comforted him.And it seemed quite natural for me to comfort him in any way I could. Words didn't seem enough. I kissed him and then pressed him between his legs. And his hand going up my skirt in response seemed equally comforting for me too. The touch of his fingers on my wet kang kang seemed like an act of kindness. This wasn't sex as I'd ever known it before. This was something altogether different. It seemed quite natural, almost like in a dream, that I should go round to the back of my Aunt's house and lift up my skirt and pull down my pantyhose and knickers to have sex with this stranger who'd I'd.
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