The eye of my mind

is looking for the I,

and whatever that means.

Questions I

have gathered like flowering weeds

in the corners of my greenhouse––I

should answer them, water them, but I

have no green thumb

for that sort of social, economic and political

posturing.

 

I eye myself, and see nothing

but everything:

 

My future husband (read: husbands),

my future children––or lack thereof––and the green-green earth

obliterated by pollutants, garbage dumped

in the oceans, and oil fracking––or whatever the frack

will ruin the not-so-green-green earth

for my hypothetical

progenies.

 

I

am a progeny.

 

Mother, mi Madre––a woman of long years,

long hopes, long nails––who will care

for the caregivers?

Father, mi Padre––a man of long fears,

long hugs, long rambles––who will raise

the people who have raised me?

 

I

am upward social mobility.

 

Everything, and totally nothing

simultaneously––but at different moments.

What will I

wear to class today––to impress

and why am I

only equal to a body in a dress?

What will I

put on my résumé––to impress

and why am I

only equal to a body in stress?

 

I

am a catastrophe.

 

 

How am I

essential, and do I

have to be?

How does my pen striking the page

matter in the grand scheme

of things?

Another line, in another story, in another

stack of other stories, in a room inside

a house filled with many stories––another

another

another

word on repeat in another vesicle

inside colorful popsicle

that is my icy brain––cold, delicious,

logical––but that’s not me. I

wear my heart, my liver, my spleen

on both my sleeves; because

 

I

think like an revolutionary, and

I

act sometimes in bigotry; but

I

can be poetry;

I,

the cacophony

of image and sound

that abounds in the pink-gray

brain in this round head

of mine, and

 

I

am the bubble of thought that dots the i.