Another First Draft Poem

Alter Image

The idea of me

that you keep in an alcove

of your mind

bothers me.

I want to take her away

and carry her around,

whacking her carelessly

into tables, leaving her

for a time head down

in the toy chest; later,

buried feet to armpits

in the sandbox

in a rainstorm.

Then I think of that alcove

empty, two votives burning

(or, worse, not burning),

and I want to put me back—

the new me: chipped, ripped,

bruised, wet. Is there a place

for a creature like that

in your mind?

Would the revised me

be relegated to a dark

storage closet with other

damaged icons?

I imagine the idea of me,

no longer able to stand,

propped against an idea

of your mother,

once cherished, now tarnished

and gathering dust.

Who else is on those shelves?

Maybe it's better if I leave

your idea of me

alone,

glowing softly in the candlelight

unaware of her own

impossibility, of her distance

from me.

After all, she isn't mine,

she's yours.