I own that mansion, the one near the beach
with the floor-to-ceiling windows, the walkway lined
with statues of men mid-run as if frozen
at the moment of their first step away from their prime.

I am holding a party, and in one of the rooms

is everyone I remember for the worst things they’ve done,
and in another, everyone I remember for their best,
and in the halls, the remaining, who I never loved enough to choose.

The white walls watch. “I gave so quickly,”

I announce, “to you all, then took so much back
when knowledge, like quicksand, devoured the wings
of my desire when it flew too close to the earth,

but I told myself I would trust what was ugly
until it made me ugly. I was the judge.

I was the jury. I was on trial.
I was the jury. I was the judge.”