Amused when she asks， is your wife Jewish？ and，
because it's easier， because I don't
want to think， I answer yes. It's the first time.
Later， a pushy man wants to know my
son's birthday. Confused， I make him younger
and the shift of dates feels so natural
I let it stand. Then it's happening with family
names， with where I work， how long， with
whom——minor changes in my vita， small alterations，
other lives， one variant for this person，
another for that， as though I were picking out
ballpoint pens or books， rummaging for
keep-sakes to give away， a different self to
each， each time. Months pass before I
catch on too and admit I've done what I did out of
caution， an attempt to screen the self，
erase the scent， obscure the trail with a series
of dead-ends until no one could thread
a way ahead through those dense thickets back to
me， reeking of fear. what did I think I
had worth hiding and who was I trying to deceive？
Tell me： surrounded by those casual lies
fabricating with disarming aplomb， why didn't I ask
whose escape I imagined I was fashioning？