Truth And Consequences

A blind woman
accosts me
after the reading breaks up,
refuses to allow me
my convictions, challenges
my view of my own humanity —
seizes me by the arm,
insists I listen —
and all because she didn’t like
the last line of my poem.

“You don’t believe that,”
she implores.  “All the rest of your work
says you don’t believe that.”

Maybe she heard something
in my voice
that I didn’t intend to leak, maybe 
something only she could hear,
because I’ve questioned that line
a million times before deciding
to let it stand
because it has always made me so uneasy
that I suspect it is in fact
a core truth
that I want to reject
before I have to live with it.

She won’t let go of my arm
but I’m at ease.  “We’re going to have to
disagree,” I say, pulling loose.
“I know that’s true — I’m sure
of it.”

“No, no…you can’t!” she says,
louder and louder, over and over.

I step away,
telling myself
that only those most unsure
of their convictions
are this vocal —

but then again,
I chose
to read that poem
and I always read
that poem.