Self-Portrait as the God Born Deer

It is only in room overflowing

that it matters what is your own;

the rusted kettle flailing its sound about

on the stained stove, the deepest jungle

of aged newspapers and bright brush

of food wrappings. I scatter

the parts of me onto high shelves

and windowsill gardens

when the anger boils high,

when my mother finds

black-marker etchings claiming

her belongings to not be her own.

Even in her dementia, I wish

my grandmother to forget me,

to stop scribing inches

of this house

with Don’t touch this,

or This was created in my name,

or Truly, it is better to take

a log out of a flood

than to save an ungrateful person

from it.* My hooves are ever-running

from the high tides of born selfishness,

of scavenging the world like forest,

laid out before you in green-golden hues.


*A quote from the tale of The Golden Deer

“Self-Portrait as the God Born Deer” was a poem written during the thirty days of National Poetry Month, and was first posted on my Twitter page.