I have been released,
certified to walk the streets,
to work, no longer a hurt animal:
shot full of sleep, fit only for hiding.
But the holes where they drew blood
are only half-filled, and the long scar
where they took out more still smiles on my neck.
I face my body like an old friend I never wrote
until I needed him, or like a small country
occupied by an army I invited, but could never trust.
Leave a Reply