Untitled [it’s alright I’m getting over it]
it’s alright I’m getting over it,
I’m just figuring out how to delineate the self in any of this
today another email from a friend—she says this is not horror
but somehow, something more than exhaustion,
something more than her,
– but I am exhausted by all the selves in my self,
and no one
is telling us, either,
what is the line between pain and solidarity
and where to break it.
it is October.
I am moving my friend out of her abusive house
and I am moving out of my abusive house
and in the midst of this we are talking about poetry
always having to talk about poetry
because the serious poets are telling us to shut up.
I’m still figuring out how to delineate the poetry in any of this.
& what other beginning do we have.
shall we quit it! let’s form a coven!
let’s desert! let’s focus on our health!
what will be left of us after this adventure!
but then, what happens to poetry—
perhaps the self after all is just the borders of my own ability,
the part where I stop being able to say it,
the part I cannot write or believe, about my worst and longest act of love.
A serious poet writes again and says we have slipped in his estimation.
dear selves,
I love you, I love you, having gone so far saying nothing,
I want to love you better, my dearest friends
but how can I explain to you who already know, and why should I add it,
and me, and me,
“each one of you has her thing, at times it stings”
& if it were just me I would run.
I don’t want to hear from me any more. I can’t stand it. but thank you for
your email
again and again, and one day I hope to write back.
there is no witness
and yet there is, everywhere.
there is no self in any of this that I can bear,
and yet there are, everywhere.