By Joyce Jacobo
[Author’s Note: I love experimenting with different types of characters.]
I am a character
born from the words of this poem
a fiction given textual life by a writer
My existence is a mystery to me
Who am I at this very moment but a voice?
Do I belong to the writer or to myself?
Where does imagination end—
and sentience begin?
then once this poem stops . . .
once it comes to The End
when the writer lays aside her pen
what happens to me?
Will you remember me?
You would read these words
And will you wonder who I was—
Or could have been?
Maybe I will regain consciousness
Every time you read these lines
Just maybe . . .
Perhaps little voices like me in poems
The bodiless kind that flicker in the minds of writers
In quiet flights of whimsy
Take shape again as characters in stories
Where we have names and histories
To live on our own apart from words
Despite a gratefulness to them
I hope we can meet again—
. . . Some page
Even if I you might never recognize you
And I have forgotten this moment
It may all fall apart now
But I still thank you
To simply be Me . . .