Shame.
I remember shame.
I was ashamed to sit with my father.
I even turned away.
I sat on the wharf and saw shame.
The wharf made me more ashamed.
I listened.
I wanted to row away by myself.
The shame returned with me to our house.
I hadn't even been away.
I talked to shame.
Sometimes I wasn't even alone when I talked to shame.
When I talked to myself, I wanted
to break the shame, the nearness of shame.
In this truth, in this house, in this nearness, shame spoke.
I too am ashamed of shame.
When I think of what I, like your father,
made you listen to, I'm ashamed.
I love you.
I haunt you.
I love you.
I don't do very much more than that really.
But I too am ashamed.
As shame, I know I talk to you at night.
I try to reach you.
This, by itself, is not shame.
But listen to me, please, listen to me, my shame.