Posts Tagged ‘who am I’


I feel like I’m this experiment called Joi.
            —Joi Sharp

Now that we’re calling this life an experiment,
it’s suddenly more fun to notice
what makes a Rosemerry angry?
How does a Rosemerry learn?
Can we make her annoyed?
What if we frustrate her with insurance claims?
With slow traffic? With politics?
With fill in the blank?
What conditions help her forgive?
How quickly might a Rosemerry
be moved to tears?
What makes her want to cast blame?
What if she meets guilt in a crowded room?
What if she has nowhere to hide?  
What makes her feel small?
What makes her feel vast?
How does a Rosemerry
heal from a wound?
What happens when she is infused with love?
What if it’s more than she can hold?
What inspires a Rosemerry to laugh?
What if she deviates from her thoughts?
If we minimize the variables,
can we predict what brings her peace?
If we control confounding factors,
can we repeat our findings?
Faced with the data,
can she still embrace the unknown?
Can she stay open to possibility?
Lose her attachment to outcomes?
Such a curious subject,
elusive as a song.
What if we change the stimulus again?
Who is she now?

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Meeting Grief Again

I was wrong, grief,
when I said you had become me,
integral as bone.

It is true you are woven
through the fibers
of every moment.

It is true, you have taken up
residence here, like a cat
that sleeps in my bed.

It is true you have brought
the most beautiful,
unwelcome gifts—

silver songs that emerge
from keening—songs that crawl
before they soar—

and an openness
I once prayed for
before I understood the cost.

But we are not knitted, grief—
not bonded, not joined.
Whatever is most essential in me

is truer than the story
you’ve been written into,
truer than page itself.

Whatever is most essential in me
longs to know you,
longs to dance naked

and unashamed with you,
but it is entirely unchanged by you.
Whatever is most essential in me

thanks you for the lessons
that keep me asking who I am.
I closed my eyes, and the light came in.

Who am I? I asked, and I watched
the story disappear from the page,
as if the ink were a murmuration.

Who am I? I ask, and the only answer
alive on my tongue
is thank you.

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I used to think
we were
our stories.
Now, I believe
in something
more spare,
stripped of
and title
and character.
Still something
in you touches
in me. It’s more
in the silence,
more in the way
the light
makes a nest
of your hand.

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