They wait smugly to tell you

Who you are, who you’re allowed

To be; they speak your new name

Like Rumpelstiltskin to control

 

The way you see your own skin,

The way the story must end.

 

Each word that’s spoken provides

A direction, a tangent,

A torque to turn with finesse

The driest straw into gold:

 

The way the story must end,

The way you see your own skin.

 

We are no more who they say

We are, than who we say we

Are. We Cower in our caves

Trading tales like bits of flint.

 

The way the story becomes

Begins within our own skin.

 

(November 4, 2017)