A new sequence maybe?


A hand that’s stuffed with straw won’t wave or flop
around when I am talking. Changeling hair
that I can’t flick. They stole me, left me there
in my own place. I think there was a shop

they bought me in, one with a changing room
lost me in mirrors reached out pulled me back
love that withdraws you.Somewhere there’s a crack
left in my soul. We weave self on a loom

made of the stories that our parents tell
yet we don’t hear. The mistress of my soul
harshes the changeling. Yet I can’t be whole
until I save his straw and weave it well

I cannot be unjust. I must shed tears
That wizened thing protected me for years.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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