Who Is It?

Yes, the question seems reasonable
as I say it out loud to no one.
The radiator does not answer.
The cat does not answer. The half
eaten plate of food does not.
And the birds chirp. Reacting
to something inside that tells them to chirp.
And how am I different? With my
observations and speech and words of thought?
Who talks to me. Who tells me I’ve been
ordained as this. This entity. It is a rumor
that’s been passed down, person to person.
Human to human.
I sit back, delirious in the silence.
The sounds of neighbors who do not know
I listen. For that which I have endured derision.
The distilled state of quiet thinking. Where relatives,
some dead, suddenly appear
through the half moth-
eaten silk. In the newspaper, in the kitchen window.
I recall them and see. Introduce
myself. Walk forward looking at my own reflection
in a hand mirror.