Penny August

Shadow


Who is this that follows me
softly, scratches at the insides
of my eyelids with long painted

fingernails, whispers in dark
rings in my ears: CLIMB OUT! GET
REAL! Stop the act! ...I am

the act now. Maybe, many
years ago, when my hair
was long and shiny, my teeth

white, un-lined lips spoke
Foucault and Camus; I knew
I could sculpt, sing, be.

That world belongs to this creature
who lives on in dreams un-dreamt,
stories untold; bland blond woman

who makes dinner, cleans up the dog
yard, takes out garbage, writes piddly
piss-poor poems, sometimes sells

the American dream, plays
the martyr, sculpts a secret life
aches for the shadow

of what might have been.