Dislocated moments. Times
of isolation. Sudden
Shifts of mood—behind
a flat-voiced façade: Lies
about having forgotten.
An elusive child
that laughs in dreams.
A casual warm touch
that might turn even God
from all his thought. So much,
So much, that I … I’ll kiss
the mouth of the wind, and let
my silent moments knit
into forgetfulness.
“Roses are red, violets are blue,
“Come to my bed, for my love is true,”
Was never said to me.
So I must think of something new.
So why not just be me?
If there’s nothing else to do,
Try autobiography.
Omit the fictional “you.”
Just present, like Van Gogh, my life’s truth—
The poor bed, the rude chair, the worn shoes and boots….
But present them to whom? To some “you”?
And if that makes “you” real? In your reality,
What would I be?
Would there really be a true me?
Can there truly be a real “you”?
Could any of this really be true?
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/dec/10/gunmen-shoot-afghan-tv-journalist-dead-in-jalalabad
Journalist Malalai Maiwand Shot Dead In
Afghanistan
https://theowp.org/journalist-malalai-maiwand-shot-dead-in-afghanistan/
Women’s Rights Activist Malalai Maiwand
Murdered in Afghanistan
https://rumble.com/vbrqxn-womens-rights-activist-malalai-maiwand-murdered-in-afghanistan.html
