In My Study of Hysteria
The sofa is pleather. My gorgeous thighs
stick in the late summer heat.
Your cigar is papier-mâché, but you keep insisting
it’s real; you even light it,
in order to prove your genuine concern
for my concern for truth.
In my study of hysteria, we are riding on a train.
It is autumn now. I am tired.
My hair has turned grey just playing this game.
A woman boards the train and, Hitchcockian,
insists she is me. By now
I am stupid. I believe her.
About Bridget Lowe
Bridget Lowe’s poems have appeared in The New Republic, Best American Poetry (forthcoming this month), American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, and the Denver Quarterly, among others.
Her honors include a “Discovery”/Boston Review prize and the 2011 Rona Jaffe Foundation Fellowship at The MacDowell Colony. She currently resides in Kansas City. You can read more of her poems and a selection of her short essays here.
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“In My Study of Hysteria” © Bridget Lowe. This poem was printed with permission from the author