Poem: Life Sculptor
We don’t author our biographies.
We sculpt them, chipping and chiseling,
peeling back the onionskin strata
accretions of time, calcified history. The layers of remaindered remnants.
What’s been piled on previous to our arrival taunts just beyond our reach, like the inscrutable object of desire who can’t and will not ever requite our boundless love.
When we arrive involuntarily, cranky at the indignities of being someone and no one
simultaneously, it’s already too late to construct from the ground up.
Knives unsheathed, mallets brandished,
we trace the outlines of a life and begin to subtract.