How am I a self
when I am
constantly disappearing?
A traveling venue
of water
and sinew.
I am a story
I made up
in my head:
Looks good in hats.
Won't eat oysters.
Fears infirmity.
Touch me, I am fluid.
In all my transparency
my body is
betraying me,
just as
the plot demanded.
I would deny this
distant progression
of time and cells
if the mirror
were not such a talker.
Kiss me, I am corruptible.
So what
are we
made of?
Stories -
Just when you think
you could not take
one more
here comes another.
You keep right on
living -
piling up
your stories
like cordwood
and the lying-self
keeps pace
with daily duties:
meals to prepare,
pills to take.
How could you
keep on if you did not
deny your vanishing point?
Look at me, I won't last long.
Tina Schumann
Photo: Peter Bowers