Enneagram

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s