C. E. Chaffin
 ABOUT THE BRACELET*
You sent me a silver bracelet.  
"Damn I'm good," it said.   But I found it  
heavy and constricting, even painful  
in its alien density.  I was forgetting  
my body again, how any restriction  
burns like handcuffs, even a watchband,  
but you know this-so I hung it from my key chain.  
I like the heft of it there, I like to stretch  
my knuckles against its links and feel  
the ache of constant use relax.    
What if all the righteous faded  
by subtle increments to pure transparency  
until no one could see them but themselves?   
Left to our sordid board games, would we even notice?   
In this scenario you'd have disappeared  
before we met.  I'm so glad I see you!  
And this bracelet, whether it marks my wrist  
or jabbers with the keys, proves  
I am visible to you as well.  
You saw the poor boy in the rich man's house,  
you clothed him in your sea-green light,  
you kissed him with your coral lips,  
sucked poison from his stonefish heart  
and smoothed the ragged seaweed  
from his brow with patient fingers, whispering,  
"You are loved, little boy, you are loved."  
* * *  
TOO MANY VOICES
I've lost myself.  
Some mad imposter  
puts on airs,  
practices smiles,  
greets my mailman,   
pages through  
yearbooks and journals 
seeking my erasure.  
The angels, in particular  
the obese ones  
dedicated to pleasure,  
laugh, it is their job.  
If I could laugh 
I might remember.  
In my dream 
I lead the sheep to safety 
only to discover  
at last, the joke:  
They are all   
wearing my face.  
Each time I wake  
I lose another piece.   
Out of charity  
I embrace what's left.  
There was too much  
of me anyway,  
too many voices, a sackful  
of purloined identities.  
C. E. Chaffin, M.D. FAAFP, lives in Northern California with his wife and true love, fellow poet Kathleen Chaffin.  He suffers from manic-depression and chronic spinal pain and has been on disability since 1995, but finds time to volunteer with the homeless, mentally ill, and as a "Master Gardener" through the University of California.  Widely published, he edited The Melic Review for eight years.  Shoe size: same as mouth.  
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