I yawn. I wake. I walk about bandy
legged without you staring at my scarred-up
leg or the tiger-stripes on my belly.
The crows bring hashish, vervain and julep
root to my window. The ants bring badger’s
foot. It’s good to be alone. All the toys
are put away. The urge to peg strangers
has dulled. I’ve wiped the lipstick off. This bruise
will fade in spring-light; so will all this tensed
rage. I don’t need sap to run with mischief
in my head. I’ve sharpened all the kitchen
knives. The shadows rub their muzzles against
my palm. I’m so full of myself; enough
to know I’m both antidote and toxin.