Holding the mirror, thus
Up until the point when I
splayed my buttocks and, twisting round, saw my anus in the mirror for the
first time, I had never been curious to know whence my faeces came. I was nine
or ten. When I mentioned my anatomical discovery to school friends the next day,
they told me that they were well acquainted with theirs already. Suffering a
chemical burn to my scalp was the only reason, at age 40, I again used a
mirror, this time to check the back of my head, and noticed I had a rather
pronounced whorl. Dorsal awareness delayed once again, I promised myself that I
would henceforth pay more attention to this aspect of my physical being. But
the back parts of me, which I have subsequently observed carefully, are
difficult to liken to anything else. Similes introduce unnecessary traction
when trying to establish a subject for a poem. Holding the mirror, vigilant for
signs of pinworms, there are no similes, no likening terms.
