The Interview

I want to tell you about me,
about the sour smell of penury ,
about loving but not telling,
about fear, about being a woman,
about things not in my file,
but you know all that without even shaking my hand,
my lowered eyes, my dress, my hesitant gait,
my accented hello, what gave me away,
the unease flickers like a second iris in your cold eye,
pulls quickly at your limp palm, holds back that unborn smile,
you cross your arms across your pinstriped suit
and I wonder which me your first word will break,
I see patterns on the carpet,
and rearrange my bones, my genes,
my tongue, my breasts,
align my birth to your contempt,
but I needn’t have worried
you had already swept me away,
my identity hovered briefly on a dust pan,
before the paisley motifs on the floor
became my shroud,
my muffled breath had not enough left
to ask which me you wanted to bury first.