escher poetry — [S] :: 2

a slip on the unseen ice leaves inner bruises
aches that aren’t the pandemic
on my job’s last day
no broken bones no broken egos
those marks are more than literal

so what if your king expelled you
he no longer likes the food you grow

so what if your pope excommunicated you
he now types alone with his family of God

so what if your dog ignored you
you are his leader lost in the pampas

it’s all small scissors snipping the self
turning identity into someone else’s toy

well all these nationalists can bugger off
my identity is what i make is what i create
no mechanical songbird singing a puddle off key
no blight on the landscape no crater in the sky
it’s in my head where those bruises lie
it’s in my head where the salve will apply
it’s in my head