not your damn species

it is true, I was born a monster
an inkblot, a dark bird dropped
down the chimney, I crawled
out of the forest and traded
places with some human
child whom the bears have
made a meal of, I could tell
you of the surgery to remove
the horns, the evil eye
the two left hands, and my
tongue was sewn together 
so that I’d speak straight and
not stutter the location of 
the Fruit of Immortality
which the living must not know
of, or be drowned by God. 
all this, then was assigned 
a place, a name, a home
given a ticket, a middle initial,
a history, a genus, a species
a nickname, a social security number
a gender, a haircut, parents
a neighborhood, Christmas presents
bruises, language, insinuations, flags,
and lots of thin little lines in the palms
of my hands to tell me where 
I should go. they call it a lifeline
it’s human, they say. 
you’d think it enough, but 
no one was fooled and they all
spoke behind my back
and called me beast and the 
goats stared at me queerly
with their eyes like coin-slots.
I tried to fit in, really I did.
but lately haven given up hiding 
the stump on my sacrum.
I tell you 
my spine was so sinuous, it had
its own language, a kind of nobility
and my kingdom was unintelligible. 
why should I settle 
for these cardboard boxes 
you’re selling?
I’m ugly but no fool:
why squat when there are 
fields made of birds
to lie down on? the rain
arrives kissing me because
I hold out my tongue. 
I know of colors that would
break your heart
if your heart were shaped 
not like a cage but 
like a bowl, the way
mine is, if your eyes weren’t
always cataloging. 
I’ve reclined on the fields
and when the birds flew
off, drifted on the emptiness
like the pie-plate moon.
I am full of rain. don’t try
to understand my heart, please.
silence is a texture, a taste.
some of us will never be known
and the act of belonging
is a species of violence 
which all of you, every last one
is infinitely guilty of.
​