The Drama of the Gifted Hansel by Debora Lidov
Shit are we lost?
Should I tell her we’re lost?
If we had some pot, we could sleep—
and worry in the morning…I’m sure
tomorrow my friends will find us.
If I tell her, she’ll cry;
women are
so weak. I
thought we had a plan
when I lay down that bread.
Fucking birds.
Should’ve used stones.
Wish we were stoned, because
she’ll panic if we’re lost.
She’ll say, “I told you so”
about the crumbs.
Then she’ll scream or faint
or start in about witches. Shit. I mean,
no one needs to live
inside that kind of anxiety.
It’s obsolete. Take me.
Things hurt, but not really
once you understand
everything is chemical
if you let it be what it is—
a matter of seratonin and not-seratonin,
control and not-in-control.
At least she knows what it’s like.
Man, I’m such an asshole. I’m
such an asshole. I’m such
an asshole. Or am I? Anxiety
is just a matter of thinking
for too long
about yourself.
I wonder if we’re lost.
—Debora Lidov
This poem appeared in the Three Penny Review Summer 2002.
