Just Be Yourself by Susan Kress

Just Be Yourself

I’m not my self today, you say,
and I wonder what self
you have on. Is it the evening
silk one or the shabby bathrobe one—
maybe the weeping one
that curls up with the cat.
Sometimes I think the self
is like a colander, the bowl that holds
and lets things go at once.
Of course, if you are Whitman,
your self is everywhere. No borders,
no divisions. There isn’t anything
that isn’t you. And if you’re Dickinson,
you’re Nobody. Nothing seems
straightforward any more.
If you take your self in hand,
talk your self out or into something,
who is talking to that self?
And if you let your self down,
beat or pick your self up, who in heck
is doing all that heavy lifting?
Pull your self together or Why
have you let your self go we might say
(heartlessly) to someone who
is leaving pieces everywhere
like shards from shattered mirrors.
You can wear your self out
with thoughts like these.
Sometimes, I think life
would be easier as a creature. A rat
maybe. Better still: a cow.
Cows seem content to spend
the day in steady rumination,
satisfying elimination. Who,
with selves that circle, split, run
out of sequence, doesn’t
glance with envy at the cow?
O, for a single self, a self
that shrugs off costumes,
masks, duplicity, and double-
dealing. But then—perhaps when
clouds pile up, the night comes on
too fast, and all the other cows
are sleeping—even the cow
lows in her plaintive voice:
Who am I? Who are you?

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Susan Kress was born and educated in England and now lives in Saratoga Springs, New York. Her poems appear (or are forthcoming) in Beloit Poetry Journal, Calyx, Gyroscope Review, Nimrod International, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Salmagundi, New Letters, South Florida Poetry Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, and other journals. Her poems have been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize.