Shadow Play

You know how we do that?
Conjuring up “friends”
when we feel
what we want to say
will sound truer
from elsewhere:
Oh, I have a friend who used to…

I think I am one of them.
I mean I am one
of those “friends”
conjured up
by someone somewhere
using me as a proxy,
tentative self.

Like a test-drive vehicle.
If it works,
they make more;
if not,
they improve upon it.
Or simply give up.

No complaints: first drafts
cannot  be disowned easily.
They go
into air-conditioned
glass cases in museums,

but only
if their author dies

a memorable death.

Even when committed

to the bin,

there is no taking away – I

was the seed, the kind

that wrestles gravity and rises,

growing tentacles of truth

gripping firmly both air and earth.

I now have a life of my own.

Or, at least, I

will be their shadow,

long and unignorable

when they are slanted away

from truth, and shrunk

and free

only when it shines

right over them.

I am out even on nights

when the moon lets me

follow them

or lead them into caverns of truths,

where they drink and dance

to songs and whiplashes,

where they howl and cheer,

yell and scream, and they don't

give a fuck. 

That's when I love them most.

That's when I leave them alone.

And they, me.