Grandmother Muriel stuck
her head in an oven in
1932 abandoning 3 little
daughters, sinking her
talons into me from 
across the decades the
chiseled brevity of her
existence a staccato
symphony pinioning me
forbidding my flight from
the resonance of her life
and she was so beautiful,
odd for a man to say
about his own
grandmother, but when
she ended on such a 
grevious note she was
only 26 leaving behind a
scattering of darkening
photographs of her bright
brown eyee, wavy black
hair, white teeth, perfectly
shaped lips, and the tiny
little cleft in her chin, so
soft and beautiful and 
that's how she'll remain
in perpetuity 26 years old
and beautiful but
nevermind, what I'm 
trying to say is there's
such a strain here inside 
me, she's here inside. I can
feel her squirming hear
her screaming, shrieking
like crazy from inside me
raging to get out, Jesus,
but its hard to explain.

There was a door to which I found a key.
Each door led to another endlessly
and every door disclosed a mirrored room
where every mirror duplicated me. 

I closed my eyes to hide my infinite face
but my mind had become a mirrored place
whithout a door, and all around I saw
no exit and no path I could retrace.

I looked and found upon the mirrored floor
a key that looks like one I found before.
I stand again where I began my search:
an entrace to an old familiar door.