I would like to tell you how our friendship lost its appeal.It was simple and petty, and was about the circumstances of powerand white feminism, how it simpers.I saw how my symbol was porous in your pupil-eyeand I, your middle-class servant,not real to you. You spoke ill of me.It was shared with me and I fell sullen suddenly and bore my angertill it fell into place with the categories I had for it.I realized I was a kind of curtain to envisage with a sparring lightthat shouldn’t get in the way.I was an outdated venetian blind with a cuckold cordand not a long-standing mirror.And I stopped believing your bright-eyed condemnationof everyone across the widened and bolted table.People who were decidedly likable. I knew they were.There’s a row of furniture that we all have to muscle,and it hurts our arms and we are bruised now.And without you we made dinner—with lobster bisque and strident chalices itemizing kindlysuggestions with holidays underneath the sentiment;and it was overwhelmingly delightful.And with this, we realize that arms give up holding the pridefuland turn to those with a bona fide devotion of humans.Most of us are together in this project of leaving ambitionto some delightful happenstance and not construing people as prey.But now I am the one who sounds superior. I want to retract some of this tone.But I can’t, I will say more to how I placed your authority above my head—a headless crown.You find it necessary to reprove innocenceand I saw that squarely replace your radiance.A poem, while it can expose us to our imagining selves, can also trick us into imaginingourselves as something beyond our behaviors.