King Phillip had a quirk:
he didn’t think much of
the bloody English. Out of
their concern for him,
the bloody English cut off his head
and put it on a stick so they
could peer into it from below
and see what was what.

Sitting Bull had one too,
a quirk that made him unhappy
about being kept in a tent. He wanted
to get out and dance.
Deeply worried about such longings,
his captors shot him down
to save him from himself.

Geronimo, that old smush-faced killer,
fell off the horse drunk and died
of his own accord while living
far from home — but that
was his quirk, that alcohol;
no one else to blame for that.

I’m sorry that the only tongue I have
with which to speak of these things
is English; I find it hard to count that single word
of Spanish as a saving grace.
Call it my quirk: I walk around all day
with a little head of rage
because you probably wouldn’t get this
if instead I’d been honest
and spoken of Metacomet, Tȟatȟáŋka Íyotake,
and Gothalay. Call it my quirk
that even now, I’m not certain that you will. 
Don’t kill me
for feeling a little angry about that.