Even here I can’t stop arguing with myself
I have mouths to feed in my sleep—they jostle and hover for nights at a time
They live in different countries and aren’t even from here
I pray for soft bridges and leeches at nightfall—I pray to God knows what
I make lavish announcements about reality here, about how good we have it there
I advocate for my waking selves like talking through a hole in a mirror
But enough about me
There’s the man who lives downstairs, up here
Rattling on about his lost receipt—of course it’s not really him but his essence
Which becomes mine and it practically diffuses me
The look of him fumbling in the bushes of a street neither of us lives on
Either of us could be either of us, our souls tasteless by grand design of cruelty
I am already on my last nerve
Nobody wins an argument here
You perfect one rationale and another one emerges
Most of the time, you’re just hauling in smoke jars from places you ought to be yet
Your clothes are not yours, not even your culture is yours
The cigarette in your mouth is made of glass—
When it breaks, you awake and the whole world cracks.
Source: The New Yorker (October 14, 2024)