Quis Est?

Who is "baby" in my blues?
Who makes fire by breathing "maybe"?
Whose clothes are these, strewn around my room?
Who is outside, who lives there?
Who is Pocahontas with the chainsaw?
Who is Flora, the goddess of rubber?
Who is the Macarena, weeping at her bloodstained hands?
Who hunches forever in my dreams?
Who goes away, who gives me room for thought?
Who is the nurse with the cracked face, like underwater?
Who is the sad-eyed lady of the lowlands?
Who is Tokyo Rose? Who is Patty Andrews?
Who is the fir tree,
who is the laurel,
who is the child in the hula hoop?
Who is the woman pressing her skull together
with the palms of her hands, pressing and pressing
as if to shut it off?
And what does it matter who, or whom,
with all this energy in flux;
what does it matter who is in labor,
who is being used by whatever?
Who is doomsday, who is Lady Luck?
Carried by energy, who stops,
who scratches?
Who has scarred my psyche? Who is Psyche?


Published in New Letters, Spring 1989