Like  a hard green pea under my back keeping me from rest 
is this question:
Who was I made to be? Who have I become instead?
What are these layers I’ve worn like sweaters hiding
my skin and my pain? Who gave them to me
or did I knit them myself?
It isn’t one question but a cascade of cross-examination.
Numbers swirl, overlap, fall into place and jump right back out again.
The instincts, virtues, passions, stances, motivations, centers, and wings integrate and disintegrate again only to pile up like pennies in the water.
And I squint but can’t quite see.

The story of a gnarled hand on a forearm and
“Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” spoken
in throaty alto, strips off another sweater fast
right over my head and I suck in
breath and tears surprise me.

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