I'm flipping back and forth, a poem and your
history, hardly qualified to lend
either a proper voice, or life. Half born
I've found both meander about the page
as if they, rather we, haven't a thing
but to flip back and forth, a poem and your
life. Laid out on paper like you were that
day after breaking both bones in your arm
neither a proper voice or life, half formed
in some preverted pro-choice protest laid
down on hospital grade, or college rule
left flipping back and forth, a poem and your
history, hardly qualified to lend
a hand much less anything relevent
with neither proper voice or life. Half born
at best, on a good day, when decisions
don't bend sideways and I can do more than
flipping back and forth, a poem and your life
neither with proper voice, or life; half born.