Who am I?
Well, my body of course.
The green eyes and curly hair, short legs and bunioned toes.
The first thing I didn’t choose
A momentary chance, a sperm, an egg,
New DNA unlocked.
Then, my name.
So very “me” - isn’t it?
Heidi, yes, the girl who loves green and plants, music, poetry and peace.
Also just the name of the nurse’s daughter, shared
In the flash of my mother’s indecision.
Okay, my parents, then.
A Foster by birth
(By chance of male patrilineage)
Of European descent: Irish, English, with that curious 0.1% African,
Which must be quite a story,
Or many stories, but not mine.
A citizen of the United States,
That self-governing experiment bought with the blood
Of men I never knew, to buy me freedoms I often misuse.
Yet even as a child, I knew
That to pledge allegiance to this flag, or any
Ran counter to God’s universal claim on man.
Who am I then?
If not my name, body, country, kin?
Fine, the things I’ve chosen:
Mother.
Wife.
Sister.
Gardener.
Daughter.
Musician.
Friend.
Student.
Reader.
True things, though temporary,
And only available as identities
Because of a thousand others:
Children, husband, siblings, pollinators, parents, teachers, composers, violin makers, friends, professors, university founders, authors, printing press inventors, publishers
So who am I, really?
Is it possible to speak of “myself” as separate from you?
Am I the air I breathe?
You breathe it, too.
We are one, then.
Drops in the ocean,
Or the ocean itself
Who can say?
By the way,
Who is asking?
Beautifully written, yet one of the categories not listed in self-identification was writer. If you choose to edit this piece to add it, I'm all in favor.