in the mirror,
what's it like
to weigh
nothing?
What's it like
to have no name?
What's it like
mouthing questions
which you didn't first
conceive?
What's it like
to be a slave—
always locked
into a stare, always
getting
it all backwards,
always placed
in a slight
square of space
which is nowhere?
Is it worth it
to show up here
first thing
every morning?
And
how far away
is it, I wonder,
from here—
where I doubt-
lessly stand—
to right there
where I'm far
more unsure
that you are?
