by Peter McHale, he/him
“You won’t know yourself!”
And I won’t, not really
Though I will try.
Sometimes I almost catch myself
In the mirror, or the splash of an ashen puddle
Or the snatch of someone else’s conversation,
Long before the electrons in my nerves can deliver a message to my brain.
I am forever chasing myself.
Whatever I am right now accelerates like a beam of photons
And I am left looking at footprints, tyre tracks,
Feeling the warmth of a seat recently occupied,
Assembling nothing but a portrait of who I was an instant ago.
But not what I am now.
I am an anthropologist, guessing at cave paintings.
Ancient fingers traced a figure aeons ago;
And I must decide why.
