I was in bed reading my poem in Gargoyle.
I thought I saw a cockroach crawl across the carpet
but it was only a fake cherry.
Fake cherries do not move.
They are moved.

There is a call for submissions from
women of colour.
I am ripe peach coloured.
Does that count?
The truth is I am beige.
When the census people came to the door
in 2010 I hid in my husband’s closet.
I do not count.
I want you to know that I know
I do not count.

Green paint dull on my left pointer finger.
I do not point things out.
I’ve never been much of a pointer.
I use my mouth the most.
I’m a screamer.

All of a sudden I’ve realized ugly things
about myself and I’d like to share
each epiphany with you.
I name things. I name the wicked in me
and I name the wicked in you
if you dare stumble across my brambled path
and fuck with my fractured disposition.
Peace is what we are all fighting for
but it’s the fighting style that counts.

I do not count.
I do not have a particular style.
I am not pretty.
I am not nice.
I wanted to let you know
so there won’t be any mistaking me
for Belinda or Heather or the hoot owl
on your favorite box
of cereal.