Imposter Syndrome

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IMPOSTER SYNDROME


Despite these mystic aspirations, 

I must admit I really like to know 


things: what’s for dinner before it’s set 

on my plate, what the poem means, 


and then exactly how these beans 

and words will continue making well-


after the plate is wiped clean into the garbage 

can. I'm aware it all runs deeper 


than we think, but can’t quite come to care

for the queasy feeling when someone kicks over 


the ant-hill and there’s infinitely more 

than we ever dared imagine. 


Is there a remedy for this condition 

other than the grit to diver under 


again and again until we can 

hold our breath a little bit longer, 


see the shadows of what swims

a little bit deeper, then surface


and even walk straight with the bends? 


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