For the 'rapture'...
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The art of disappearing is the title of a poem I treasure by Naomi Shiab Nye. I received it from a friend a couple of years ago. I reflect on the poem often - it expresses something about me. It's unfortunate that friends take it personally whenever I publish it on the blog, as if I am rejecting them, but it isn't about rejecting any one at all. I thought of reprinting the poem today for the 'rapture', but I know for sure some would interpret it as a response to their hospitality. So I won't. Instead, I'll pretend I can write poetry and make up my own poem instead.
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Alone
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Practiced in the art of disappearing...
frequently at parties I've excused myself on the pretense
I was stepping out for a moment.
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I would get my coat and go out unseen.
Slipping away to avoid being persuaded to stay.
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Sometimes I didn't want to leave,
but I was never sure how I could remain
without being 'found out'.
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I'm not sure I knew what that meant however.
Probably because I never knew what I did.
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I must have learned it from my parents.
Sometimes my dad would disappear for months.
Once he pretended he killed himself and left only his wallet on the Wabasha Street bridge.
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My mother disappeared a few times as well.
She stayed with other men -
sometimes for a long time.
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I never asked them why they did that.
I suppose I was afraid they would do it again.
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I left home the same way.
One evening I just disappeared,
walked out without saying good bye.
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Seeking what, I never knew,
still a novice in the art of disappearing.
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When I grew up,
I once had a lover who disappeared.
That was when I 'found out'...
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If you disappear before they do,
you never have to be afraid to discover you are alone.
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Art: Abstract, Gerhard Richter
