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？