Who Am I?

Mother, wife, daughter.
Aunt, niece, cousin.
Sister, great aunt, soon to be
grandmother.

Once a student, once a teacher.
Once an employee. Once a believer.
Once a good listener. Once a young
girl. Once a water-skier, tennis player,
880 and the mile competitor, an artist,
a believer.

Who am I who watches the primrose
take over the garden beds? The woman
who walks her red dog in the evenings,
the one who watches out her windows
and screens, the one who still paints
her face every day though usually
not until half the day is past before
she realizes half the day is past.

Who am I who talks to my son
about poetry and literature, about Hugo
and Ferlinghetti, about Collins and Sexton,
about conjugating verbs and adjective
overkill. Who watches him go from
pubescence to young man overnight.

Who am I who wears the same black
skirt every day, who cooks lavish
meals every night, who drowns herself
in a bottle most nights, who can't sleep
well, who walks two miles a day, who wonders
how I got here to this place of not knowing
what to believe

Who am I that anyone should love,
should say You have the nicest smile
and beautiful eyes, whose eyes are puffy
not just in the morning but all day,
whose heart hurts and whose lungs
must endure her abuse, whose brain
got whacked somewhere along the line,
whose feet hurt every night.

Who are you that you can sit here
in the quiet of this room and entertain
who you are, as if in entertaining
you could get some slice of flavor,
cucumber or biscotti, to tempt
you to be who you are, the non-
believer in disguise.