How many times have I lent myself
to a character devised by someone else,
the voice an aside
from my own true story.
Today I ran into my image in a mirror,
dislocation like that of a landscape
after the painter reassigns
verities of line and color.
A second look and I was back
to my original.
Say memory is a bruise
reminding us who we harmed,
who harmed us, and why
some felt so little of the blow.
Where does it hurt-where? we ask.
The child can"t always say,
but she can cry, and we"re frantic
to know where to lay the salve.
Not forgiveness, only the chance
to revise the roles we failed,
the never ending chance
to carry the story by ourselves.
---- JULIE SUK ---
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