Begging The Question Poem by Patti Masterman

When I read all those poems of languishing,
I begin to imagine they were written about me,
by your many facets, your multiples
frames of mind, in tiny deceits of tenacious manipulations..

I might even start to imagine that I am woman, and seducer
and you, male and desirer, as decreed by nature-
and the words used might imply that I made decisions,
formed invisible territories,
grown templates out of sentences and replies, or even by not answering

And 'I' is such a minute though infinite concept, such an invisible construct
that soon I begin to tremble, for fear of being thought of as some great 'something'-
instead of as the feeble 'nothing' that I have always imagined myself to be

And soon I run away again, and I see you retire to your corner
out of the corner of my eye-
as we sit staring, contemplating that which we think we will never have,
but somehow, dreamlike- is the sensation we always possess it, nonetheless.

Still, in my woebegone state, I am deserted again and again,
in a prison made only of thoughts,
so that nobody can file the bars or open the doors for me to come unto them.

The key is a goblin, I have eaten it a thousand times,
waiting for it to reappear again
and human bones can't squeeze through the defenses, enough to join me,
anymore than a phantom could steal my heart-
or me be able to admit, that it has happened before and is happening now.

But mostly, whether I am just a thought inside your mind,
or have a separate sovereign existence inside myself- always begs the question..