For Me: The Unreliable Narrator

Fourth of a series of 4 poems about a love quadrangle. Enjoy.

For Me: The Unreliable Narrator:

 

I. Mirrors

 

The only question I could have asked,

then, was, at the end of all things,

“who am I?” If my pride is upended,

if my fields are razed; am I still

the woman who would cross 1000 years

and 3000 miles to find you, and share

her last piece of bread? Or am I the one

who would set herself on fire for a dream?

Can I be all of them, or am I none?

Both options are not possible.

The only path left, was to say:

I am just a woman.

A tired, angry, scared, and lonely, woman.

Who sent half of her soul in search

of answers and found a miracle

emerging from inside a nightmare.

 

II. Too Tired for Love

 

I am tired. So f*****g tired.

I am a woman tired of being presented

as a foreigner, not a professional.

Of being called a gringa, and not a poet.

I was tired of being told in private,

“you are marvelous” and in public

always hearing, “Ana is my friend

but you are nothing.” I am tired of my

friend saying, you are too much. Of

the women who say, you cannot be

who you think you are. The other woman

who calls me a common harlot. (I am

anything but common, in that regard.

Hate to tell you). Of lovers who say, it

would complicate my life too much, to

bring you fully into it. I am tired of having

your back, and his, and hers, and theirs-

but that nobody is there to hold me

when I am tired from holding up

pieces of the sky. I think of what

it would entail, to love again. The

thought of that kind of newness, 

exhausts me.  

 

 

III. Because Words Matter

 

It all depends upon

the kind of pen your biographer keeps

in his writing desk.

Words matter, and for too long,

I let mine blend into the background

like social camouflage.

This voice will no longer falter.

Because what I had to say,

is important, too.

 

My friend, to you I would say,

damn it, love me already. I promise

to not destroy you. You know who you

are- be that, to me. To the women

who kiss me on the cheek one minute

and cut me down when I leave the room:

I do not envy you, your smallness.

Walk one week in my mind,

remembering the things I carry

every day, like pieces of vows

carved of forged iron. Then tell me

anew, why I should not complain,

that my back hurts.  

 

To the men who cannot seem to find words

of respect to use, to define me;

let me suggest a few you might want

to note for future reference:

Call me, “poet.” Label me, “Licenciada.”

Classify me as an artist. A leader. Professor.

Say I am loved. Or call me too revolutionary

for love. Call me intelligent. Passionate.

Driven. Or just call me, your friend.

It would not kill you, to do so.

 

IV. Those Who Were There

 

Finally, what I need to say

to those of you, who embraced me

in my darkest hours. Thank you.

You brought me back. You found me

and led me to a place where I could

stand until the floodwaters, receded.

You saw me. Even when all that sustains me,

was stripped away, you saw that

underneath, I was still

just a woman. A contributor.

I was “Enough,” even when

I could not

keep up with the demands

the world places on me.

Worthy of sitting at your table.

Beautiful enough to be noticed.

Important enough to be heard.

 

Call me an unreliable narrator.

I probably am. None of us get it

right. Call me unfaithful- I am a poet;

if we do not fall in love with something new

every day, we disappear into uselessness.

I will always love more about this universe

than just one man.

Call me dangerous. I am that.

People like me were not born

for office jobs and a well-appointed home

in a gated community. But stop

labeling me, a liar. I do not lie any more

than any of the rest of you.

Author's Note

first poem: for her
second: for him
third: for the friend
fourth: for me