In a picture of my soul, there is space to work
Out not only what I am but what I might be if I were
Neither as daring nor as wounded
As anyone who knows who they are could ever be:
My presence accepted because consistent.
I long to disappear into the world of the really living.
There will be no place for self-pity nor for pride.
In my writing too I’d no longer work
For approval. Accusations that I write only for myself
Would fall on ears serene to accusations just
As self-doubt will have been honed out
Of my infrequent poems by the same dismissal.
Dismissal will have been erased from my whole sense
Of me though I not look much different than before.
I will give my time willingly and in a detached way.
I’ll never look for escape routes even when humiliated.
I’ll cry more often but my tears will not be shared
With anyone. I’ll get angry clench my fists
But this too in solitude and quickly over.
I’ll write poetry sometimes but never know
That I’m writing a poem until I’m nearly finished.
Then I’ll finish and put the poem away
In a drawer. I’ll wear jewelry but nothing so
Elaborate and each piece will have meaning
Known only to those who know. People may call
Me lonely but many days I’ll forget that I am and
When I forget to be lonely I’ll cease to be.
When I forget to be angry I cease to be.
I will rarely drive anywhere at all
And this seems so much more natural.
I’ll not remember the last time I shouted or posted.
I will take extremely long walks
In the woods in a long dress and lace-
Up boots of a light tan color, fawn-colored:
No one ever will ever see my legs again.
If I haven’t taken to using another name it’s only
Because names have no descriptive power.
Sometimes I flow like a stream along the path
Of least resistance. Other times I swim like a trout
Up stream up waterfalls through sewers.
I resolve never to believe in the mark
I might still be leaving on the world.