TWO SELF PORTRAITS
 

One learns to live with
all the misconceptions
about oneself--the lewd snigger
cold eye, charge of betrayal
indifference, can only be met
with hurt bewilderment, protests
of I'm not like that, meet
knowing smiles only.
Have I not, perhaps, just back from a dream
espied a leprous being in the mirror
eaten away with desires
of treachery, crime, untruth
complicity--cruel, obscene?

If I peel away, layer by layer
at memories, deposits of habit
residues of virtue, I find
myself an onion
layer after layer of seeming meaning
and intent, sufficient by itself
leading to no heart.
Not even, as a pearl, a grain
of pain in its womb.

An onion merely--a little tang
a little flavour
and whorls of indigestion and bad taste
in its wake.