On trying to rid oneself of the life-long habit of self-deprecation

The easy way to start, of course, would be

by telling you this poem is nothing much,

a poor unfinished thing, deserving just

the merest glance, a moment of your time,

if you should find yourself with no more

pressing thing to do, like filing down

that ragged nail, imposing order on

your cluttered desk, or flicking through

an ancient copy of Grazia.


But no, I’m going to do a harder thing.

These words are who I am.

Read me.

Read me now.