"I Am Not What I Am"
Confession
For Duffy White
More than 600 years later, I’m re-scripting
Iago’s line as my own aside: “I am not
what I am” is what I’m saying. I’m saying
if we happen to meet in this absurd theater
in the round and youturnquickly&instantly
pivotback, you might glimpse another me,
let’s call it the dark side of my moon—
a trite metaphor, I know—but that’s me too,
a lazy cliché, one of many unflattering poses
I keep to myself along with the cold, angry,
confused, afraid, petty, viscious, weak
Stevie, Steve, Steven, Mr. Lewis. Dad. Chief.
My dear children might wave away my confession
(I’m vain enough to hope so) and friends could
offer four too many no’s—“No no no no no,
we know you”—to which I’d say, "Thank you,
but no you don’t,” is what I’m saying here
in black on white, on a brisk November day
after wandering the woods, trees bereft
of leaves, cliffs appearing for the first time
since April, a seasonal reminder that the story
we show the world is never the story,
that the long afternoon shadow behind
me is not trailing but chasing me past
sunset into darkness, where lust, gluttony,
greed, sloth, wrath, envy, pride push me
from behind, make me trip on my feet,
tumbling down through all the valleys
of all the shadows of death in life,
where I always land with a sickening
thud, a shadow of the man you think
you know, stumbling between tree trunks,
past bears asleep in caves, red tailed hawks,
barred owls soaring silently over the torn
canopy, scanning the fields for rodents as I
find my way back to the yellow house
deep in the dark forest, to light a fire,
to disabuse myself of all the masks I wear,
to tear out the hurtful pages of Corinthians,
rip up the inhumane Boy Scout Oath,
the apochryphal wedding vows, tossing
handfuls of pastel confetti into flames,
the flickering light of half truths, brazen lies
piercing the darkness, warming the quiet
living room where my love and I sit
on this family-worn couch, the two of us
long ago evicted from the garden, strangers
to everyone but each other behind crow-
footed eyes, inside wrinkled skins,
we cleave unto each other,
shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.
—SL, New Paltz, NY, November 2022
I salute your courage to bring to light what all of us know about ourselves but don't show to others.
Many thanks, Tom!
A powerful attempt to highlight the shadows that follow us through our lives, our secrets, our fears, our alter-egos. Nice work old friend.
another sexy-ass poem from Steve Lewis! (also I really like stanza 13-14)
such a lovely piece, & comforting, too