I called myself on the phone:
it was an i phone,
full of apples, mostly, to keep the medical profession
at bay.
and like a leaf in the storm, like a tempest in a teapot,
I heard myself answer
"to whom do you wish to speak?
it was the assertive me,
but the shy me didn't answer.
for he was in a bedroom, applying lipstick,
while humming a song from 1963.
between songs, like a school tease,
I grabbed one of several membership cards
and began to whack away at my infidelities:
Whitman, again, in my head but off in a far corner,
and his multitudes yelling,
'Ship Ahoy!'
my wheel was spinning, like a mammoth spider web, it spun and spun.
I yelled, too, with a chorus of voices,
each a different sound.
but now I finally have control until I lose it,
I'm in the fog, I know, but the sky is clear blue and
the winds calm yellow, like that solitary flag in Philadelphia,
high atop a stone building in the middle of William Penn's city.
dreaming, cowering under my bed, I hold onto my blankie and soft monkey toy.
the monkey looks like me when I am being my silly Self,
so I don't take it personally,
but I do take it with me when I march off wearing combat boots.
my literary Self is nervous about acting childlike
in a war zone, where I think of John Wayne and the tough guys
who spit chewing tobacco juice on the floor without apologizing.
the cleaning lady is watching with her clean white towels.
she could be me or I could be her, as we both push the cart without apologizing.
I am often GI Joe but shop like GI Jayne, looking for bargains in the bins.
and when thinking deeply, I am shallow like a shim of milk over day-old cereal.
acting bravely, I hide like a furry caterpillar inside my newly-spun cocoon.
when I am kicked, I see an angry mule and get angry at those floppy ears.
when I kick in return, I see my anger like a flash of despair over a fragile childhood
spent in puzzled hurt, and
I do wonder if that hurt has completely gone away,
while knowing that it hasn't.
my vulnerabilities can be dunked like a basketball.
I acknowledge the ball rolling across the court of my life,
foul or fair,
as I sit in the second row of the bleachers,
where I am yet a player, but
just wait until I tell mother, I hear my younger sister say.
just wait.
I wait, holding my phone. the seconds pass and a lifetime, too.
a voice finally answers, and I speak normally,
asking how is the weather where you are?
I age and yet am not old, so weather is what it is!
I discuss and listen but sometimes don't really hear.
I entreat and hold my hand to be held, while holding my breath,
hoping to be loved,
seeing the flowers among the weeds.
I love, too, and love and love, and more than love,
I and many Selves:
we steer the ships, and man the sails, and tackle the seas,
plotting our charts,
diagramming our diagrams,
with no particular place to go:
I am the parent and the child,
standing on the shoulders of others who have guided me.
