Blindspot - Adam Rubinstein
After Miss Haze
I am writing because we are honest men. We’ve tasted our hearts
and know damn well
when we are lying. It’s because of this we know too well
there is a heart that counsels the heart, that suggests
we trample the floor
and scream about credit cards to keep our deeper darkness safe.
It’s just our fear: something we did not ask for
given to us in childhood. That we will be known completely; naked
and obviously lying.
I am writing, brother, because we are the only ones who think our nakedness
is hidden: this skin, this sex, this voice. Our power.
No human is free
of burdens: we all curse our parents or some younger moment
of ourselves. We all carry our bodies through the day,
and dread taxes.
But our friends make less than us and pay more. They’re exhausted.
They just want to negotiate only their own daily questions. We know this, and still
it’s in our blindspot.
When they tell us
we are not listening, we tell them to say it better, deeper
in this fine language we did not ask for and were given
So even as we agree
they are oppressed by men who look like us, we insist they tell their stories
like we do.
This is my darkness, brother, and yours.
And when they do
what we asked, we call it a hell of a poem. An act of aesthetics
we can compliment for how well it speaks to us.