Postcards from the Edge #1

Glass Works

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Glass Works

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‘Glass in the reluctant matter, that depending on where we are standing, either effaces or exposes its mediation . . . it keeps the idea of mediation open’.

Anne Carson

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and proved certain ineluctable truths,
when the waiting room of our psychiatric clinic was smashed up. . . 

The bullet proof glass across reception, 
frustrated, his steel rod bounced off
and merely left the memory of aggression 
as a superficial graze — 
hardly worth the effort to write about. 

Whereas, the safety-glass,
at the centre of each door,
was slowly penetrated with each successive
rhythmic thrust. 
  
Our defloration was progressive:

first a crack, then a pounding
of anything that lingered 
as a tantalising target.

His plateau of violent pleasure
lasted so long, until he came 
in splattered crystal chunks.
 
The unsafe-safety-glass saved us,
his violation of each glass panel,
sated something close to blood-lust;
he’d made his point, dropped his pole, 
and trudged off home. 

I’d like to think, in his economy 
of grievance, our debt is settled, 
with no further need to carry out 
his earlier threats 
to burn us down.

(But, imagine his excitement watching
us go up in flames)

Each type of glass had proved its worth,
depending on where you stood:
either an illusion of safety,
or something to show how easily 
a faith in the power of understanding
can be shattered.

Later we were asked to make our own,
‘Personal Impact Statements’.

Here is mine:

‘We are well and truly fucked’.

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And if you have been, thank you for reading.

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