
I write younger than I am, but my voice
cracks on the high notes now.
I don’t know how much longer I can fake it.
I wish I had a daughter, who would sit and
listen, and forgive me in the
way only daughters can.
Instead, I sit with my laptop
facing a bank of windows with a
view of a mountain,
snow flurries in the sun.
I encounter many me’s
in various stages of becoming.
It’s as though I enter
a Greek amphitheater
in ancient Corinth,
my many selves sit on the old
blocks of stone, twitching.
I point to one and say
“OK, come on down.
Today’s your turn to whine about your life.”
We all lean in, ready to pounce,
evaluating the honesty, the growth,
knowing that one of us
will be judged next
and found wanting.
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