They hand you a handout…a look
a number…a label
a social identity that passes for you
They call you they and them—
Black people poor people gay people other people
They add on ‘’people’’ to distinguish you
from White Western male majority
They can’ t help being like that
They were born that way
Do unto others
before they do unto you
Go ahead make duplicates
only I’ll keep the original
I anonymously yours am at a loss
Coiled in my shell—a cheap hotel
or is it Hell ?—
a crime scene tape I dare not cross
I am envious of my own reflection
I will never make it to the other side of the frame
Never see my own children again
I the carbon copy of unnamed stars of meteors
God’s blueprint at my fingertips
the Trinity stamped on my forehead
my tongue nailed to the roof of my mouth
a chain-link fence that keeps going South
They hand you a look a label a number
then point you in the direction of your shallow grave—
the one you carry with you
the one in which you bury yourself
a little deeper every day
What identity is left
is either inherited like a windfall or a disease
is a reasonable facsimile of an ad
a commercial on TV a Facebook emoji
What identity is Left
may be borrowed from the Right…
smacks of popular opinion late nite date night
Artificial Intelligence Fox breaking news
the romance novel you once read
just before that illegal abortion in sunny Mexico
The one that left you hemorrhaging in some unmarked train station
or forever boring smiles into other women’s children—
children whose souls you may recognize but never fully embrace
What identity is left is a mirror without a face
without health care or a place to call home…
What identity is left is you humming alone in the dark.
is the echo of an echo is Light sailing to some distant shore
is taking a vacation without you
is reminding you is reminding you
that you still look good you still look damn good
Red is sooo becoming! as you stand there dripping in blood
What identity is left
is patting you on the back
is feeding you more of these lines
they guard your uterus better than assault weapons
as your brittle (but genius original) bones are snapping
in sync with your still cool ever-breaking heart
Superb poem Antonia.