Those Who Know Me Know

Thirteen years later I woke up,
stumbled through the door,
down the hall.
I muttered a few admonishments and flicked on the light.

To be sure they were there.

Silence. Some stars glowed.

The light hurt my head,
so I quickly turned it off
and saw the cold lights overhead from my memory.
And I heard the panting, the begging for mercy
as if it never really came from me.

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I am in such a bubble.
How to get out?--
without being too uncomfortable, that is?

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So, Joyce's _Portrait_ resistantly consumes my thoughts,
yet I am only on the 5th page. All summer I have implicitly heard:
the patriarchy bows down for me [grin], so upon occasion,
I should bow down to it.
What a stupid trailer to play through my mind.

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I have to go now--have got to make this day count.