Tenth One

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2009/01/19

One, I keep no papers.
I go nowhere
to drive, to vote, to report in,
to pay my way,
to cross borders,

or fill prescriptions. What, what?
“Sign her up!”
Charge the state

nothing more
than guessing at my scarred
thighs, my unmasked hips,
the penciled in tits and body hair
as an invitation only exhibition.

My eyes itch.

Scratch them. Bring out
a little blood. Try again, try.
Poke a hole, stretch out the edges, pin them back
so we can all see

Here and here, and here,
where my sutures
are holding me together.

Do you know what they call this? Yes?
“Write her up!” Tell
them to find something
to match up with the helmets, kneepads,
tourniquets – 

item by item, by the book.

Rude tongue! Is it on you,
down your throat,
up your ass, through your grip
like an vacant lot?
I only function in private, in the larger picture, in the strictest sense

as might be confined
to quarters.
Waiting my turn
for reassignment and the slim
chance to sit nearby

the terrace where the red wine is orange
and the white is green
and fans blow feathers to

make snow.

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