If thy own hand . . . offend thee
—Matthew 18:8
Self-hatred? No, no dear: that seems inflated —
chagrin: the shame you feel when friends withdraw
for reasons they leave tactfully unstated,
leaving you to guess at your faux pas
From all you did and didn’ t say for ages,
as in some vast congressional report,
your sin, at last, is lost among the pages;
a snow of detail cuts inquiry short.
In downtown windows where late sunlight glares,
you see yourself, as if you’ d never met.
Who is this rumpled lookalike who wears
a blouse like yours, the armpits dark with sweat?
Your eighth grade diary still makes you cringe
saved — for what? — that you might now despise
pages time has lent a jaundiced tinge
pouring forth their daisy-dotted i’ s?
Some second-guesser in you finds untrue
the echo of your own voice in your ears,
and wants to ask which one most sickens you:
the voice that whines with neediness and fears,
Or one no doubts can ever undermine,
that speaks before a general assembly,
proclaiming loudly what to do with thine
own hand (or his, or mine), should it offend thee?