I

Elizabeth Spires

You stand so straight and tall

and from afar you could be

a column, but up close I can’t tell

how tall you are.  I run my hands

over your marbly façade,

hug your cool circumference,

and remember, or think I do,

the day you (I mean I!) came into

existence.  I was on my back,

naked or nearly so, entertained

by waggling fingers and toes

(I didn’t know the words)

when suddenly, toe in mouth,

I put it all together — my first

eureka! moment — and understood

those fleshy nubs were part of me,

and I of them (here the pronouns get

confusing). A shock and a pleasure.

A feeling of power and terror.

I haven’t been the same since.

If I climbed you, not an easy thing

to do, I could sit on top of you

the way that flagpole sitters do,

and have a bird’s-eye view

of miles and miles around.

So that is what I’ll do, hand

over hand I climb and somehow

reach the top only to see

how everyone’s thinking aligns

with mine, everyone astride

a pillar of his or her own making,

some near, some far,

some curious, some hostile,

but even so, I wave to all

of them and wait to see

if they wave back.

Elizabeth Spires is the author of seven collections of poetry, including Worldling, Now the Green Blades Rises, and The Wave-Maker. “I” and “life of i” are included in her new collection A Memory of the Future. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, American Poetry Review, and many other magazines. She has also written six books for children. She lives in Baltimore and teaches at Goucher College.