Inca Pan

The Scar

So long gone had I been
that when I returned
I did not know me, the one

who called—warily, through the trees,
as I approached like a thief or a
ground mole—Who is it?
I saw her whiten in the doorway,
she could have been my cousin.

Linda, is that you?
That’s what I answered.

From the lintel she took me in, the length
of me, with my one good eye.
Nearing her, I was a worn on end, an indigent.

That was when I knew I had arrived.
The last step in the longest, impassably long, now I will always
be twinned, wanting
to not know returning.

—Susan Wheeler

via The New Yorker

So long gone had I been

that when I returned

I did not know me, the one

who called—warily, through the trees,

as I approached like a thief or a

ground mole—Who is it?

I saw her whiten in the doorway,

she could have been my cousin.

Linda, is that you?

That’s what I answered.

From the lintel she took me in, the length

of me, with my one good eye.

Nearing her, I was a worn on end, an indigent.

That was when I knew I had arrived.

The last step in the longest, impassably long, now I will always

be twinned, wanting

to not know returning.

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