Milk's Mirror 

Milk's Mirror

Milk looked in the mirror. Looked again. He was a real sight. Milk was never the sight for sore eyes. A huge pimple on the glass with sprouting hair and embedded apertures. Milk couldn’t believe his eyes. Milk was not in the room. But in the mirror. Or so Milk felt. Milk didn’t look again. Not for a long time. Then frightened Milk discovered he wasn’t in the mirror either.

Milk woke up with a swollen head. It hadn’t been a dream. Surely, Milk never dreamed. Milk couldn’t dream. Couldn’t sleep, in fact. Mad people are people who stay awake. Madness and waking walk hand in hand. Sleep and sanity are tongue in mouth. Turd in cheek.

Milk couldn’t fathom it. The bed was smaller now. Milk’s mind bigger. Heart thumping like a door in the wind. Milk had slept for the very first time since coming into the world. Always in bed at night. The only civilised place to be. But sleep, that was another game. Until tonight.

Since his mother’s womb had disappeared like the back exhaust of a car speeding up a motorway towards a massive shunt, Milk had lain there at night, eyes bigger than stars. But not tonight. Milk had slipped. Into darkness. Then dreamed of a mirror. Milkmirror. And, finally, himself. Milkself.

Milk tottered to the toilet. Worked the flush to rid the bowl of the creature that had floated there during the night. But it wouldn’t budge. The water rumpled its skin. Sparkled the gaps for eyes. Plumped plimsoll-lines and tide-marks against the sides of the bowl.

Milk laughed.

Mirrors everywhere.

But nowhere for a soul.

Milksoul. Milkbowl.

The eyes wet.

(published 'Air Fish' 1993)

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