I’m afraid everyone will see
through me. See that I know
nothing, that I have no experience.
Honestly, I think they already believe
I’m a failure—a failure in the sense
that I’ve lived no life and now attempt
to write about it, which defies
everything I was ever told.
Write what you know, its better that way.
Am I? The explanation of that theory
would be that I lived other lives,
and have a mild, wisdom-like
recollection of such things,
but I’m not consciously aware
of all the things I’ve done. I bet
I was a hooker, in another life.
A “harlequin woman,” as I’ve said,
and will tend to say in the future—
because it sounds more eloquent than prostitute,
although nothing is as literary
as the word “whore.”
And I bet for a while I
was an English girl, lost somewhere
in the countryside, the carriage ride
getting ever-the-more rough—my corset
ever-the-more painful.
But I enjoyed the adventure when it came,
because I was too noble
to smile and too peasant
to laugh. And I bet, before
all of that, I was just an orphan,
somewhere in the recesses of India or
Sri Lanka or even as west as Saudi Arabia.
And I was abused, probably, and left
to wallow and to die.
Because I was a girl.
Although in some life, maybe
I was a boy, and possibly that’s
why I think I understand anything at all.

03/25/2008

Posted on 03/25/2008
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson