The Untrustworthy Speaker

 Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.

I don't see anything objectively.


I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.

When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.


It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.

Standing on the front steps.
 Holding my sisters hand.

That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends .
 .
 .


In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.

People like me, who seem selfless.

We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.


When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.

A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.

Underneath, a little gray house.
 The azaleas
Red and bright pink.


If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.


That's why I'm not to be trusted.

Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.

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