You think you know me?
I should tell you, then, I’m a metaphysical Matryoska,
An infinite set.
Every me I pull out is larger than the last and
It’s unclear how many of us I will crack open and free.
We are birthed by tragedy,
New mes breaching beheaded torsos.
Destructive as any beginning, but
We don’t lie broken long.
The me you see fits those lolling heads back on tight,
Lines us up and checks us out without
We stare back in our babuskas,
So like the shmata this me wears to wash my face before
I slip into dreams stripped bare.
You can’t even picture it, can you?
Bigger selves can’t be encased in smaller
Bodies, you say, but I experience it all the time.
You imagine yourself in a careful and fixed shell, and
That may be true. But
I am not built that way.
As I pull off each successive head and
Shed each successive casing I expand
Each new me reaches further out into the world,
Lays claim a bigger space.
You may think you know me, but
This metaphysical Matryoska is an infinite set.
There’s more to me than even I know.