Lacan's Dilemma

Is it possible to miss the Imaginary Stage,
the comfort of linelessness,
the knowledge of oneness,
the capacity of only seeing
the self as an extension of my mama's arms,
her breath,
her vocal chords,
her breast?

Is it possible to stop myself from looking
in that mirror and saying,
Oh, that's me,
and I'm separate,
and I'm free,
and I'm not a part of anything,
and my arms reach out to no one,
and I breathe in isolation,
and my voice is a soft echo in this cave,
and this breast only contains
my own heart,
my own cares,
my own science. . .?

Could I prevent anyone from forming
these words with their mouths,
asking me to imitate and emulate
and confiscate my own development,
counting and shaping these figures without having
to memorize and vocalize,
without having to know language?

I lost the connection.
When mama became m-a-m-a,
I lost the connection.
Words took that away from me.
They caused the gap between
theory and practice, between
fear and silence. Between
me and you. And
I want to go back.