Are you your poems?

No. Yes. An acquaintance once said to me, “I feel like I know you through your poems.” He doesn’t. A friend once said, “I didn’t like that poem because it’s not the Marilyn I know.” It wasn’t. My poems are generally a quick-heated amalgam of memory, imagination, musings, things I’ve seen, things I’ve thought I’ve seen, stuff I’ve read or my imperfect recollection of stuff I’ve read, people I’ve known and the stories I’ve heard. Every poem is a fiction, and like all good fiction, is true…ish.

As mass and energy are
two aspects of the same thing,
once you are gone, the solid
mass of you, furred chest,
your square fingernails,
the way your eyes are amused
long before your mouth is,
is there energy left?