Originally published in Maudlin House.

When I Go Out

 

when i say my name i pick my voice up off the floor
dust it off stretch it out
it was made with mountain timber
and a cellists draw
 
i count the days between people noticing
what i am and am not
to those groping curious eyes
the kind that count your curves your breasts your hairs
 
on a coin i fit child-fears
the ones i have now and will forever
i always flip it the same way
and hope it lands the right way up
 
some day those eyes may follow me home
and cast me into dust