If you remember my name, think

of the outward bite of capitalism.

It has burdened the fire escapes of

my appetite. I stand thrashing, my

skin marbled surface, at the grand

stand of surviving. Here are outward

cups. Here are downward thumbs.

Pointing at me. At the ways my

stripes protrude, how my jaw rips

open. How my words echo through

walls that should have sat women.

I am wrenched away from the grip of

infancy and thrown to the wilderness.

I am taught to grow fangs, to dig my

claws to the earth that birthed me. I

am expected to rise even when people

take off from different nest stations.

One of these days, I ought to return

my bones and surrender towards the

starless sea. Maybe it’ll swallow me

whole and bury me to the golden

tree.