All the ancient birds heard me say farewell
to the trees, my deep roots, when my shadow
was touched by that egg of dark, that thin shell.
I am now far from the sea, the ghetto,
even the horizon does not recall
my name. I seem to miss those ugly things
that helped anchor me here. I had a doll
once, a lost thing without hair or blessings,
that slept in my arms since no one else would.
We make do with what will love us. Like words,
we love what shows up. Translating wormwood
into poems. I call on all bastards
to show me how to live with this pathos.
Better still, how to master this chaos.