No License

to operate a car will
convince me to get 
behind the wheel. 
I have epilepsy, and 
shame on you for telling
me to get a license.
I remember how to make
a K-Turn or whatever
it was you needed to pass
a road test but just
think I am a danger to
society behind the wheel,
particularly because 
I think of a car as a
suicide weapon. I reached
that conclusion when 
I was thirteen-and-a-half
and decided to unbuckle
my seatbelt in case 
another car would hit me.
I wanted to be a casualty
because I flunked a test
or something. The reason
doesn’t matter. What
matters is that I think
of a car as a suicide
weapon and you, and you
want me to get behind
the wheel. Stop. I am not
going to place myself
where suicide is easy,
where my seizures are public.

— Poetry
 — forthcoming, The Pit
 — (Penguin, 2018)

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