A poem in this month’s Poetry magazine:
When did I learn the word “I”?
What a mistake. For some,
it may be a placeholder,
for me it’s a contagion.
For some, it’s a thin line, a bare wisp,
just enough to be somewhere
among the gorgeous troublesome you’s.
For me, it’s a thorn, a spike, its slimness
a deceit, camouflaged like a stick insect:
touch it and it becomes what it is:
ravenous slit, vertical cut, little boy
standing upright in his white
communion suit and black secret.
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