…wisdom is a lie / only the dead / can see through / & reject
—Jerome Rothenberg
The afternoon is haunted. My wanting wants more. The waiting room chair stripes its own slats on the wall behind it. My mother lives. Her yesses for $$. Her flabby no’s. Her voice in shade. The light traveler I am—rises from her stripes. Tips the landscape above her head askew. And slides into the backroom shadows, still a beggar . . . This is who I am: auditioning for a Broadway play. This is who I am: a witch sticking pins in a cloth doll. So I get the role. So the other actress doesn’t. This is who I am: naked onstage for the premiere. The great man’s opening night. This is who I am: Playboy’s Hefner calls at noon to ask me to centerfold. I say only for Harold Pinter. This is who I am: a lucky bitch with a bed and a lit candle in Paris. This is who I am: ashamed of being an American while guns leave limbs behind. And I “want.” While earth implodes. A new war is breaking its shell. Ugly featherless thing, screaming in its nest. This is who I am not: a savior. This is who I am not: the healing hands I once had when God whispered do it now. And I did. I could. Then. I don’t know how to heal the skeleton hand of war. This is who I am becoming: a once upon lover. A once upon star. An aging femme du monde. This is who I was: a demander of love. A killer of hate. A voice in my time. A speaker of truths. A human without a tribe. This is who I am: a whisper, in winter. A singer of hymns in the shade. A light traveler in shadow. This is who I wanted to be: a grain of salt to flavor your plate. A beggar, like you.