Long ago, I built a self outside myself.
I ate what my family ate, answered
to my name, but when they said let us pray,
I kept my eyes open. There is a price
to be paid for resistance. Whatever
you call me, I have called myself
worse, invented words made up
of letters from my own name.
Now the backs of my hands, all bone
and strain, I think cannot be mine.
Who hasn’t killed herself at least once,
only to grow into someone needier?
Who hasn’t bent with her wounds
to a mutinous patch, weeds
shooting up like false rhubarb,
every wisp, stem, and sodden pith
a testament? Who hasn’t scratched
at the question of what it means to be here?