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