Ode To Foreskin

 
Where pus and poems hemorrhage
is a day old baby

with ten fingers and toes
nearly perfect,

little jaundice legs sprawled
like a wishbone

snapped.

So much crying
so much confusion

as my discarded foreskin floats in a metal tray
like a tangerine peel in a rain puddle.

My dog growing up still had her dew claws.
Mom said it’s because she came from a

neglectful home.

I called them her Velociraptor claws,
dangling, useless things that only

occasionally got caught on quilts
and thread blankets.

Nothing about them reminded me of neglect.

They’re supposed to be snipped when
they’re babies she tells me

and they didn’t crop her ears.

What about docking cropping
and snipping
reminds us of care?

They cut the arms off a tree on my block.
Only an occasional leaf fell from those branches.

It was so obedient.

I only peed on the doctors because
it was my first second in the world…

I’m sorry… I’m sorry.

***

(A new series featuring works from Friday Night Open poets at Brooklyn Poets)