We Make Ourselves
By Lillian-Yvonne Bertram
She always carries her things: Body of proof
careening, commenting, big and vocal.
They get personal. Hey kiddo.
A big fan. A dust up. Twitter. Protect
your details. Never share your number.
And this is how it begins:
Imagine water and an old friend.
It sounds like a paradise, a pet on Twitter.
Normally I’d kill time all day long.
My character is exhausted. Avoiding
the script, escaping into I’d marry you.
I wish I want to build something good.
I dreamed about old friends, dancing
at the war. Maybe love is a lot
to memorize. I drink. I’m drinking
at midnight. I’m white noise. People
find me sometimes, this world
of jerks. Before sleep I will delete
this: I have a friend who was a sham.
I used to know a door in a world
floating in the air. Dignity off kilter.
Kill the fiction, a thing I can handle.
This heart, it’s always mad. I wish I was
a man already. They’re for real. Or not.
Am I in trouble? I go online. It feels
a little icky but I’m intrigued by
rejection. It just is. It was like I wasn’t
even acting. Everything a big spiderweb.
We make ourselves. Who did I let in?
You changed. The first rays of dawn
begin to cut. Please tell me who you are.
Lillian-Yvonne Bertram
Commissioned by the Goodman Theatre, in collaboration with
The Poetry Foundation, in relation to their production of Highway Patrol, for their 23/24 season
January 2024