POETRY
Homeless
A poem about the ambiguities of self
Outside the window gray clouds race by,
an opening appears, pushed away
by a dejected sun.
But the hordes come
and once more I cover that luminous spot,
completely forgotten in my storm.
Below on the mud of trampled fields,
the old mustang hobbles while the Shetland pony prances,
another two-I don’t know what they are-begin to hump,
and I grunt and bite my lip
until blood fills my mouth with rust.
Under the oak a cat waits,
eying the bush where hides a mouse; the cat
knows no time until the pounce — when I hear
the crunch of little bones between my teeth,
my tongue covered with fur.
A flock of blackbirds in one body swirls,
one instant a fish,
another, a man baiting a hook,
and the next, I hold a frying pan,
as my body expands, twists, and turns, and whistles about.
