I've existed here
so long,
I feel I'm no longer subordinate
meat
and bone;
I'm a burnt coal
a hunk
of old
recalcitrant fossil—coming off
in my own hands. Coming off
desperate
for the symbols,
frenzied
for the right words
to press and scrawl and
decorate
this primitive space. But
every time
I etch a "yes"—crumbling
a little,
stepping back
to observe, it
always looks a lot
more like—"not yet."
