[ poetry - january 05 ]
After Borges shot himself in the mirror
He turned to me and said:
That bullet is never coming back
You can wait till the last recorded syllable of time
But neither I nor Borges nor that bullet is ever coming back.
He handed me the gun and continued,
Now Mr O'Dwyer, for the love of god and a few tender
Obituaries take this mirror, walk to the window, face the sky,
Cock the gun over your shoulder with your right hand,
Aim for my forehead with the mirror in your left hand and shoot.
Although nervous, he had not yet surprised me tonight,
But I'm not sure if what followed actually occurred or is just
One of his stories.
As best I could, with the nose of the gun resting on my shoulder,
I aimed for his head with the aid of the mirror.
He is not a vain man. I saw that he was shaking.
I hesitated for a second and he shouted:
Go on dammit.
I pulled the trigger, closing my eyes at the last moment,
And when I opened them, it was not Borges
That I saw in the mirror but myself.