An/other

I am an other.

I don’t know why other than the tmesis of my birth shapes

.

that cold hard straight adjacency

and fits just perfectly

.

with the eagle talons that scrape down

my cheeks as they blush with insincerity.

.

Another day passes

and wrought digressions leave me weak

.

the cloudiness of heritage is compounded

by never knowing where authenticity lies and where

.

truth begins. In another room

I can hear the dog snoring

.

but she never cared where she came from

or whether she was perceived as anything other than a dog.

.

I trip over my feet when I realize I am singular

and that pluralism stands for no one—I offer resilience.

.

Remember when we would tear out the garage sale listings

from the local newspaper each weekend

.

and stop the car to pick up soda cans

from the side of the road. Poverty doesn’t

.

discriminate. And l feel so violated when I internalize

those ignorant slurs like a dancer who expands and contracts

.

that gorgeous message of a stranger

careens through

.

trying to identify what is exotic

and I fall deeply surely again

.

into the love of words for an other.