Tuesday Poem: Identity Theft

You used to know who you were.
Every morning the same rumpled yawn
in the mirror, the same complaints.
Now it seems you’ve gone
missing, towed away from
where you park yourself each night.
Retrieval is possible
for a fee — but you’ll need I.D.
and, well, you’ve been stolen.
Where is your wallet?
Skipped off, with your self?
Face it — you’ll never get you back.
You could argue your singular talents,
your finger-typical creases
and whorls are proof enough.
But the core of you,
the cellular essence, the quarky particles
that spin your days on its axis —
disappeared. All you can grasp
is the husk of someone you
almost can’t recall. Your signature
has shrunk to a scrawled X.
No invitations, no e’mail.
Even your address is absent.
So search the diminishing icecaps,
if it brings comfort, along fault lines
deep in the Pacific’s sea floor trenches.           
Look under a honeybee’s forewing,
in the throat of an orchid,
beneath a slumbering black bear.
With any luck you might scrap together
enough scattered pieces — toenail,
ulna, pericardium, shaft of hair —
and reassemble who you might be,
who it’s still possible to become,
in the tick-tick time careening away
into a future — yours?
Found on via Tuesday Poem which everyone should definitely check out right now. (Especially since tomorrow is Tuesday!) It’s a really great site for those interested in reading or writing poetry and it has some amazing material. 

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