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The sentinel

Light enters and I remember me; he's there.
He begins with his name, which is (now clear) mine.
Slavery again of seven times ten and more.
He imposes his memory.
Imposes the daily grief, the human condition.
I'm an old nurse; I have to wash his feet.
He lurks in mirrors, mahogany, store windows.
Spurned by this or that she he shares his anguish.
He dictates me this poem I don't like.
Demands I learn the nebulŠ of stubborn Anglo-Saxon.
Has taught me the cult of military heroes, I couldn't say a
word to.
He's there with me at the top of the stairs.
In my footsteps, my voice.
Truly I hate him.
Delightfully he cannot see.
My prison is circular and shrinking.
We don't fool one another, we lie.
We know each other too well, my brother.
You drink my cup and eat my bread.
The door of suicide is open, but theologians say I'll be there
in the other world, waiting.