Once,

a little blue and red person 

screamed I was her 

imposter. 

I cannot contrive this. 

And when I wept, it was not 

for poets

it was for me

for me, who begs stranger 

to cut away the serpent 

I haven't listened 

the serpent with flattened 

head that flops 

with more alleged anxiety 

than I 

because I 

can use tears and splash 

through them when 

new men come knocking, 

visiting monuments 

other than 

themselves. 

I come to you hungry

bent from watching

my hands and feet 

roam about, making. 

I crackle toward you

grinning and rickety.

You see I am you

but you want you  

for your own.

You want credit for your 

agony, and you want me

to go home. You want

to protect this road 

from the demon 

in my simper.

in my simper.