a rose by any other name would dissolve

in a jar of acid, could transition from one

state to another to no state ever again, to

nothing but something that was

just moments ago;

I was born breech, a blemish,

with my moon in the cancer

of a hospital bedsheet, in the early-

morning light of a slipping sun—

I was afraid of you; I’ll say it


I was afraid

                        of you—

the bitter pill, swallowed, or was it

sweet, because the meat of me is

raw and wet and everything hurts

except coffee with cream, or whiskey

neat, and a Sausage McMuffin, a pill

so small it seems impossible strength

to stop the making, the feast.

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