No, I am not nobody-
And it saddens me so
That you were.
Yes, it's true, I applied for membership
In that select society
Imagining, perhaps, that it would bring
An afterlife with you and Anne,
Sylvia and, sometimes, Adrienne.
What a party we would make.
Fine porcelain cups of rough whiskey
That scalds throats and tears eyes.
Honesty, I suppose, we could label it
And deliver it unflinchingly to all who dared approach.
It seems a pretty prospect.
But still I must decline
To be nobody with you.
For even in my solitude
The knowledge of my unshrinking self remains.
And in that knowledge, strength to let the cup pass me by.