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.