When I walked
I walked as any other
Man
And when I chose to discourse
It was as any other
And when I fought
I fought as dirty as any other
Only the crone could discern what I had discovered
And she laughs
At my small town indiscretion
Crone claws for my ears
Cackles about the bloodletting
“Boy, take a hard look at yourself in my funhouse mirror
Let’s review the crime you say you sired
Where’s your accomplice?
Where’s your instrument?
Where’s the body?”
Crone midwife murmurs
“Here’s the knife
Cut it
Cut the cord.”
I can still see her amid the shiny floors
White starched uniforms
And the stink of day-old urine
Articles on the wall, ignored
Cut the cord
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