the self
i.
the crow dips its
head sideways
to drink, a form
of hegemonic consumption
as in, what will you say
when a celebrity asks
why you were born
what’s the use
earlier I said to my client
when you’re burning
you’ll reach for the nearest water
now—later—I admit
to gerrymandering
my own empathy compartments
unless the act of immolation
is less about relief
than one would think
while in a religious phase
a fairly famous musician
wrote, It may be the devil
or it may be the lord
but you’re gonna have to serve
somebody and I am reminded
the language of fascism
begins with a choice
in the dream I visit
a poet who I love
they turn to me in conversation
begin to place the whole
of their ever larger body on top
of mine
rolling their hips on to my lap
and in facing me
the only thing I can see
is the bristles on their lip
am I shocked at a nation’s
desire to not know itself
no
am I shocked at this
the real answer is yes every time
I’ve been having a strong
reaction to the word
mastery
recently
in the activation synthesis sense
you told me this morning
it is not wrong
or naïve
to feel horrified
this reminds me of taking
Jesus Christ Superstar
the dreams I had afterward
were the forest floor
as schools of minnow
and walleye
frozen Lake Winneconne
dotted with discarded
Christmas trees
slowly sinking during the thaw
the acidity of decades
of conifers, fish pecking
at white flocking
under the surface
if I am to drink
sideways
I demand wings as well
look at me
demanding anything
I don’t want the choice
to be one of two
masters
but, for me
infinite freedom
is inevitably bondage
in doing a basic overview
of dream life
I’m trying to make sense
of single serving anything
I sort desire into categories
of which plastic
wraps them
it’s as if the agenda
is for me to die
and I am not ready
I don’t love myself
less as a result
but the question is whether
I can love you more
it’s got to be under the fingernails
this trainwreck of a poetry
business
where we kill each other
for more room on a platform
of beauty
I’m looking at myself as the source
of some real evil
the day you told me on the phone
you’d seen a prop plane
carrying a bizarre message
on a banner
was the same day
everyone in this country
walked slowly into traffic
a human eddy
of not looking up
regardless of the skyward message
this is what I mean
when I say I’m trying to learn
to drink less like a dying fish
dynamics of power
do not allow for the soft break
of hearts for each other
or what if we decide
there’s been enough of anyone’s
blood
really, really
why do we pay rent
in the time it takes
to grow out my hair
to where it was
we will have new leaders
same as the old leaders
by virtue
of who we deem authority
yet I still want to celebrate
when a beloved wins
an award
I even watch award shows
it dawns slowly
I don’t need to wait
for space to be given but then
we’re back to the two masters
question again
where I am an elephant
in possession of ivory
aren’t I
it matters to me
what you
and poetry
think of me
the bristles on my lip
become the only thing I can see
have we decided our brains are random
in the theta waves of deep REM
and that we create the narrative
afterward
or that we are sorting and drawing
connections while sleeping
if Freud was right everything
is a stand in for everything
else
although I resent him
for some of what he said
this time I am also willing
to admit
it could do me some good
to attempt to be a stand in
for something else
any of the things outside
my window could be
the master of me
why not
old slipper in the street
neighbor’s purple echinacea
restless moth in the window
shadow of my own hand
Amie Zimmerman lives in Portland, Oregon. Her newest chapbook, 31 Days/The Self, a collaboration with artist Samantha Wall, will be released by Ursus Americanus Press in 2021. Amie's work has been published, or is forthcoming, in Sixth Finch, West Branch, Guesthouse, the tiny, and pulpmouth, among others. She is the author of four chapbooks, including Compliance (Essay Press, 2018) and Oyster (REALITY BEACH, 2018), and is an editor at YesYes Books.