I am nearly positive there are no other
Langston Kermans on this smoking earth.
Certainly not in this neighborhood.
How frightening to think
there might be another
who appropriates the prescription for my abscess,
who claims my lost packages,
who watches anime and sucks
juice between his teeth, the same as me.
I am 32 years old
and I have never known anyone’s
heart attacks in the morning shower.
No monoxide pumped into a closed garage.
No true loss.
Even my first dog lived to 17:
She died quietly on a metal table,
the family encircling her
like a fleshy halo.
Dearest “other” Langston,
how many eggs have you cracked
to find the yolk pecked with blood?
Copyright © Langston Kerman. This poem originally appeared in Respect the Mic: Celebrating 20 Years of Poetry from a Chicagoland High School (Penguin, 2022). Used with permission of the author.