**I am the pride in Oberon’s Love-lorn
Crown and the bleeding in Hamlet’s voice.**
Its the taste of iron in my wounded
throat that reminds me: I am not
a cow, dog, flower or forest.
That my humanity
Who has to die a little
just to know itself
will one day choke me
until the blue in my face
resembles the blue around
Your veteran eye
Or the blue around the Albatross’ sky
moments before she died
in spite of those who loved her
Who shed tears like silver coins
buying a shard of happiness
to use as a nail that **could
Crucify our grieving souls**, but
corpses still cast shadows
even after you lick your thumb
to silence the sun like a wick.