Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.
Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.
My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can
cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:
all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies
and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors
you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —