Vol 1 No 2 2007
Resemblances
Too close to be recognized,
Too deep to grasp,
Too easy to believe.
- Gampopa
Lots of evidence: long hands and short fingers,
flesh as pale as cream poured straight from the fridge,
a shyness that doubles as charm: the genetic
equivalent of rhymes. And how about
Sundee, Mondee, Tuesdee, etc., born
to habit, tongues punched into patterns like those
old computer cards. Uncle Russell’s smile
stuffed in with the dress-up clothes, all the cousins
taking turns in the mirror. The struck matches of
Aunt Lillian’s eyes passed around on a windy
night. No wonder we love each other, cunning
narcissists. Sometimes we go too far, claiming
Claudius or Cleopatra, former
versions of ourselves. Look, this gold wafer
of an earlobe, this star-shaped mole on my hip,
proof that I’m never completely alone.
Not to mention my imaginary friend
who in the same blue shirt is a dead ringer.
Who’s next, the neighbours, features morphing through
peepholes in the fence? The mailman evolving
with constant devotion? And what about that
otherwise stranger in Starbucks, ordering
a hot chocolate with the same sprinkle of this
and splat of that, his tongue practically licking
my bottom lip? The Family of Man echoes
from the past, blood spurting from whipped cream machines,
cracked-open smiles and long, blue sleeves. Like
dripping canvases, a spray of abstracts,
Barry Dempster