Tales True to Life

Could you, as a woman, ever really
Long to be one of those story-women
In the narratives made by men? Would you,

As a man, ever long to be that man,
One of those men in tales told by women?
And as neither/both could you not feel torn?

Does no one find it strange how much you long
To be someone other, more, than yourself,
But only if you get to be yourself

As you’d like to see you, seen by others
Who are, in some key way, enough like you?
What kind of illusionist’s act is that?

Houdini will now come back from the dead
To extract himself from the life he’s led,
And you will each get to play Houdini.

We pause to consider this while reading,
Ourselves, our cousins, the latest reviews,
Non-narrative texts vetting narratives.

Men invent women; women invent men.
Someone invents every one. No one
Is wholly pleased, though it’s pleasurable,

And the invention continues, again
And again. Sound familiar? It’s hunger,
Life’s essence, to want more from life than life.

If words ever get to where we don’t need
Life, if we ever get to live, if we
Ever live as you, pray we aren’t hungry.