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This isn’t getting any easier, I said to myself
when I was told once again that I’d won
the consolation prize. Had a heap of them
steaming in my back room, waiting to be
buried in the yard next to my dog Sam
who died last year from cancer. In other
words, my words fail to penetrate. Am
I somehow deficient? Or does my unwieldy
appendage explain it: I can’t help it, I was
born this way, with this thing I have to
explain to everyone even when it’s tucked
away and under and snug. And if this
sort of pain doesn’t count, count me out
of the race such as it is, don’t even look
my way. I may turn on you if you stare,
I may do something you and I will
both regret. On the other hand, some
gentle people have expressed their love
for me indirectly, and I thank them
from the bottom of my being for
opening a small place in their hearts
where I can enter and light a candle
or clasp my hands together and murmur
a prayer or some other words that
come soft and with a certain gravitas.
Lump me in a category of one, then,
for I don’t fit with the other freaks,
and drop me on a deserted psychological
atoll where I can worship the sun
and reverently kick sand from my sandals.
