The Other Woman

  
Today, I am the other woman. 

Well, not THE other woman but another woman.

You see, I’m not myself, so I must be someone else.

Someone like me, who I am most other days, does not hide

does not steal away from the controls to cede the center.

Not the spotlight but the hub, co-equal and convergent.

But all the other mothers took my role today, the hiders

much-to-doing but not without martyred smile and cheer,

disposed to giver-worker-bee-busy-as-a-buzz-on-beer.

But I have always been eye of the storm where the stillness

of separation–me from them–oxygenates breathing space.

And yet today, I played her, the subdued sideline spectator,

the other woman waiting in the wings to seduce the shadows,

bait them cover me in downy anonymity, cog-less care free.

Who is she, this other woman impersonating me?

9 Replies to “The Other Woman”

  1. I wonder how being a “subdued sideline spectator ” would always be a source of inspiration.. the other woman, its someone who comes out from each one of us, sometimes inspiring us and sometimes completely shattering our individuality.

    1. That sort of describes writing in a way, the writer as both the self and observer of the self and others, which places her in the center to create worlds and on the sidelines to watch it in delight or horror or both.

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