changing skin to steal a birthright
is old news. bleach, conk, ink and scalpel
make a new lie. the bluest eye
is a plastic falsehood, the brownest tan is lifted
from the people you’d never speak to
in the street, the straightest hair
kills your family, the smoothest face speaks to
denial of every kind — no history,
no memory of play or sorrow.

the ink dries under the skin and the pictures
never say enough to matter enough.

you open your eyes through a mask
every morning. somewhere inside
is the bark of demand: notice, dammit,
notice me — but no one hears the dog in you
recalling its wolf past.

you know it’s there. it drives you
batshit crazy a little at a time.

then you let your dog out to play one day
and the world steps back from you when
you come down your front steps into the morning.
someone says you look like your mother.
you don’t flinch. you cover the dragon
on your back and crease your brow
the way she used to. you are
who you say you are for once: no whimpering,
no pampering, grooming is for the small
ones, and today you’re far taller than your fear.

leave your hair uncombed
and keep walking. trot and sniff
as you go. piss on a tree
once in a while. there are others out here,
you know.