Anne Murray
Who Are You?
“Who are you?”
You keep asking, persistent as a pebble
grinding slowly inevitably
its dish in the rock.
And I reply.
“I am female, Cornish, wayward, indolent,
wife, eternal student, cook.” The list goes on and on,
I want to scream.
And still you ask.
“Who are you?” I peel off more layers,
expose an “I” I hardly know,
a vulnerable thing.
I suppose
a butterfly feels much like this, unwrapping
its wrinkled wings, soft body, from the pupa
and, still uncertain of unfamiliar form,
prepares itself for Flight;
a thing new-hatched,
newly aware of a world
beyond the pupa cradle – a world
wider, more beautiful, more dangerous, full
of expanding life.
Page(s) 16
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