Ode To Foreskin
Where pus and poems hemorrhage
is a day old baby
with ten fingers and toes
little jaundice legs sprawled
like a wishbone
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
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
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)