untitled poem

To deny what is there.
Or to pretend
...I made it  up
And you are Flora
Or whomever your memory captures
As the essence of the momentary you.
You think that this, again, is only
Fantasy, half-memoryy, half-dream
Gleaned from untold imagination,
Every word you ever read,
And every consequent thought
And the tears are prescribed,
Part of some contrived image.
But you cannot see it through other's eyes,
Though you may try and come close.
If you never know the thought beneath the smile,
The reason for the gaze,
Then you lose
And begin again
In some other identity
With fragmentary remembrances
To help you in your search.

Susan J. Skinner

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