The Exact Moment
It would be odd
but somehow comforting
knowing the exact moment
when I die
yet live on.
No, not a resurrection
or reincarnation,
but rather a destruction
of the facades I live behind.
Do you think what I see
in another’s eyes is real?
Or In the mirror each morning?
Do you believe that what
others see of me is the truth?
The answers are always “no.”
I am made of reference to myself.
I keep my true self from myself,
not even knowing who I am
until I am “in extremis,”
when I act without regard or filter,
when hard pain
or the pain of others
or death
or birth
or joy
or deep love
or touching God,
as did St. Joan inside the fire,
strips away vestiges of my last defenses.
I think about this:
To have a film,
made by some cosmic cinematographer,
capturing the instant
of subtraction of all my masks,
to be able to relive the moment
they are stripped from me,
to see the eyes that see me,
to see me,
to see it happen,
to know when it’s done.
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