It has been years since I woke from this body


Not goat—smaller, but not a dog—no fur, no submission. Chihuahua, maybe, but with bigger teeth:
always closing in, always chewing, enraged to chew only air, only its own clumsy tongue. Not angry,
not directed—unleashed, rabid, erratic and running—running in circles, lurching and two heads—
two biting, starving mouths, frantic and sweating, not waking up my mind pans out of that house
and not my house—my mother sleeping and  I’m running to her scanning for that thing: what feeds this?
She has no answer, no waking. Convince me I am safe, all of one size not stumped yellow and withering:
the left side ignored and raging still. Enough of uneven, compensating hips for a smaller leg (a spider
plant leans toward the window, will brush the cool glass) and quiet and afraid and mad, mad.
Please, all and only green—