Monday, November 20, 2017

Who Is Here

When we believe we’re being
looked at, we often pose:
make a sweetly private fuss,
and straighten spines and toes
and smile like Mona Lisa –
summon up the faintest blush:

attempting to acknowledge
that hypothesis, the Other –
the odd idea that someone else
has agency to see us, autonomy
that isn't we, or me. You see,
my dear -- assuming anybody's

here whom one can call a dear
(who, in fact, is here?) -- we use
the Royal we. It's not unlikely
we've created you because 
(like God) we're lonely,
and we're all made out of me.

But we're very good at fooling us:
which means your really being
here remains a possibility.
We doubt, though, we will ever 
know. So it doesn't matter too
much if you come or if you go.


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