The Weeds In This Garden

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?