Iowa Review, April 1st, 2007
You arrive at a place where
I doesn't matter. You're tired
of hearing yourself talk, star
in the celebrated farce
billed as drama, titled Me.
The sea, the mountains come in
and out of your life, children
grow beyond you-still, the one
voice hardest to leave, the first
person, holds to you from his
central cave position, armed
with the old clips and soundtracks
projected against concave,
distorting walls. He needs to
be told the war's over. He
needs to leave the stronghold, to
come out with his hands up, high
as surrender requires. You
may pull the brittle palm fronds
from th...
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