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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.

by Louise Gluck
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