I am not ashamed

to say I too, talk to my dead;
I tell them about my day and my most 
recent woes, ask them about the terrible 
mistakes I've made as a parent. (They
listen in sympathetic silence.)

I've learned to stick my neck 
out and say something rather 
than nothing, admit I don't see
the point behind things like Burning
Man. (Glamping as "decommodification" 
and "self reliance in community?")

I am not ashamed I had to change
my shirt in the car, in a parking lot, 
after I puked all over myself. (Just think, 
—somewhere, anywhere, someone right now 
is having a wardrobe malfunction or sitting 
on a toilet, having soiled their knickers.) 

When my heart could not stop
lurching from worry, I have reached out 
—blindly, even perhaps unwarrantedly, but 
motivated by the desire to ease someone 
else's pain (even if I know there are 
many things beyond my control). 

Can you blame me for trying?
Can you blame me for wanting 
to exhaust the means available 
to me, if these result in some
reprieve? I am not ashamed to admit
I am that kind of person. I am not

ashamed to plead for mercy.