Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

The Replica Theory

by Sofia Thuru

Mirror, mirror,
maybe this mirror screen will show me who I am...
Cold and clean. Sharp and shining. Maybe this mirror can reveal the secret…
Of an oval face and two blunt eyes. Of two red lips with their edgy smile.
If I stare into these eyes, will they tell me who I am? Will they look at me –                
with a glimpse of recognition?
It’s not this lump of limbs who owns them.
Their real owner sat outside, smoking cigarettes. Fretting his hands in the cold. 
His time had come, you see,             
and he knew, that’s why he came.
To be replaced, so he was told.
“Quiver and shake. Shudder and quake.
Our glorious land grows us.
Cling and clutch. Seize and snatch.
We, sons and daughters of the ground,
Like wheat, like corn – the sludge breeds us.”
I know my mind and I can see my body.                      
I hear my thoughts and I can see my eyes.
And, yet, a thought for which I was not programmed…
   who am I?
   and who’s the man fretting in the cold?
It grows in me, like some sly sickness.
“You rise from the dead, the dust, the sand,
 Polymers, you defy the mortal strife!
Forever fallen, you rest your soul in peace.
And ever awakened, you lift your arms, you lift your limbs…    
Mirror, mirror…
Sharp and clean…  
How can I trust your sight?
Vacant mirror.
Dead, with lifeless eyes, 
and hands that tremble, pale and white.
… a tear? …why?
A blurred mirror. 

 I cannot die.

Added: 30.04.2011