Who I Am Not
I realized recently I’m less interested in persona in poetry these days. When I was young–very young–I wanted a hoochie coochie goddess voice not my own. Hence I spoke as many a mythological character.
Now that I’m old in poetry as well as in years I have no idea what it means to speak in a voice not my own, for what could not be mine?
Then I realized, maybe this wasn’t the transcendent Zen experience it seemed. Maybe it was just that I was writing fiction again, certainly writing in a voice not my own.
On the porch of a cabin next to a lake with tall firs and loons, this morning I wrote: Tucson, Arizona was not a bad place to be if you were dying fairly quickly of a painful disease.
The story is a flash fiction, about two very different women who are comet hunting partners. In it I’ve twisted an experience about the non pre-eminence of art in someone’s last few days on earth to be about how what you’ve loved the most, in this case comet hunting, can actually fall away.
Have I experienced this? Have you?