there are parts to me that who i am
is who i could
not and never be
the stitching of my skin was deliberately wrought
by weathered hands other than my own.

in the woods
tertiary mothers and fathers always
dreamt to impart to me their own brand of pride
and our culture suckled long on iodine-dipped teats
that traveled beneath tired sows on a merry-go-round.

mothers and fathers taught their babes
to dream only how special it could be
to keep the closed loop looping
taught them to knit connected tapestries
taught them only this.

and this ribose thread runs deep through my dreams
for when i turn in i’ll imagine my forebears
and their million faces return a glance in a mirror.