Just Like This.

I’ve seen a thousand visages

Bloom like day lilies

For an instant on

Your features and

In each one there’s this

Completeness, like a poem

That ends just like this.

The Mechanics of Self-Deception

When I run, and the metronome of my steps and breath begin to tick, some autonomic function in my brain begins involuntarily to count each step. I have trained this part of my brain to count in increments of 180 steps, as this roughly correlates to1 minute; 8-9 minutes is a mile. (And it's helpful that 180 is divisible by 3, because I take 3 steps for each inhale and 3 steps for each exhale). If I am mindful, I can tick off the miles with rough accuracy without looking at my watch. But despite the automatic nature of the counting itself, my ability to maintain focus long enough to remember which 180-step block I am in is hopelessly flawed; my mind always wanders to other topics and I forget where I am.

As my concentration slips and I realize I have lost my simple, monotonous thread, two separate mental functions-- perhaps best referred to as my conscious and unconscious mind-- begin to work along separate lines. My unconscious mind is a great flatterer; it would always have me believe that I have run further than I actually have. Knowing this from long experience, my conscious mind makes corrections; it backs up the mental count; forces me to start counting anew in the middle of a cycle; it over-corrects for the weakness of the subconscious mind.

Both my subconscious and my conscious mind are aware of their deceptions, which lean in opposing directions and attempt to cancel each other out. They seek, through compromise, to convene at the point of truth-- seek to perceive accurately and without external assistance, the position of my body as it moves through time-- an inner and outer harmony achieved through the rough, inescapable mechanics of self-deception.

To arrive at a correct understanding is perhaps not to avoid self-deception but to understand fully its mechanics, and to correct for them.

Triptych: The Choices Women Make

Eve 

I am that She who slaked her need

Underneath the apple tree,

Who cursed the whole of womankind

Through our yet unbroken bloodline.

“Yes I would do it all again,”

Say both pride and humility— 

And that is because the two are one

As long as we continue to bleed.

Athena

Sprung fully formed from the mind of a god

And an Apgar score that’s off the charts,

She can see the world in six dimensions at once,

Tracing every intention back to its heart.

She will give you a gift that will meet you halfway

In becoming who you’re meant to be,

And she’ll make you a spider 

If you sit down beside her

And dare to think you could ever outshine her.

She crouches behind opposing perspectives

Then holds up a mirror to show your reflection.

Mary

Perhaps at twelve, as Mary perhaps was,

I may have said yes out of love,

Or at least I would have thought that’s what it was.

Consent, to faith, is a strange drug.

When Gabriel left and silence fell,

And the impossible came to dwell

In such a space as small as me,

I may have felt the infinite

Reflecting on the price of love

That weds it to its opposite—

How could it ever (always) be

That women house such mystery?

Athena

Sprung fully formed from the mind of a god

And an Apgar score that’s off the charts,

She can see the world in six dimensions at once,

Tracing every intention back to its heart.

She will give you a gift that will meet you halfway

In becoming who you’re meant to be,

And she’ll make you a spider 

If you sit down beside her

And dare to think you could ever outshine her.

She crouches behind opposing perspectives

Then holds up a mirror to show your reflection.

Mary

Perhaps at twelve, as Mary perhaps was,

I may have said yes out of love,

Or at least I would have thought that’s what it was.

Consent, to faith, is a strange drug.

When Gabriel left and silence fell,

And the impossible came to dwell

In such a space as small as me,

I may have felt the infinite

Reflecting on the price of love

That weds it to its opposite—

How could it ever (always) be

That women house such mystery?

Eve

 

I am that She who slaked her need

Underneath the apple tree,

Who cursed the whole of womankind

Through our yet unbroken bloodline.

“Yes I would do it all again,”

Say both pride and humility— 

And that is because the two are one

As long as we continue to bleed.

Witness

When a soul finds its home

In the watery nest

Of a woman’s bones and her hands come to rest

On the dome of her carriage,

She fancies herself as the giver of life,

Always misunderstanding 

The nature of time as a circle 

That sweeps through the middle 

Of bodies and dream worlds, but witness:

The stem cells of babies are left behind

In the mother’s blood for the rest of her life

And they rush to the site of her injury—

When her heart gives way,

They return to weave

The magic they carried into this world

To sustain the first rhythm that they ever heard.

The wide dominion of innocence

Finds its freedom in this and only this—

When you spend your whole life giving children the tools

To dismantle the very specter of you.