I’m Not a Pear
I was born in the hump on my back.
The whacks from the nuns woke me up.
“I want,” I say, “to see.”
To see with my eyes.
To see with my shirt buttons.
To see with my crocodile eras.
Ears of profundities.
Ears of portabella mushrooms.
Ears of pregnant pears (I love to eat pears).
I’m not from a pear,
I just like to eat them.
My bed is pushed up against the windows,
in the big room at the church.
That’s where I sleep,
for now.
It’s just me.
I’m solo here for now.
At night,
(soon)
I’ll feel the ocean breeze.
On my scalp.
On my nose.
On my chin.
On my breath.
Then,
I will be Free. And Free
I
will
be.