Turn me widdershins,
take the breath from
my chest, peel me in
side out, a fraction
of who I could have been.

Turn me widdershins,
pluck the grey from
my scalp, boil it
in oil, deep fried
meaning, crust on
seasoned cast iron,
mirror image of my intent.

Turn me widdersins,
and leave the scarf
around my brow so I
can pretend I’m blind–
I can see underneath
if I tilt my head just right.

Turn me widdershins,
take what I earned, what
I fought for, and burn
it in my front yard,
ignoring my cries while
I cook fried chicken inside.

Turn me widdershins
and give back what I lost
to cheap beer and
Marlboro Milds, the years
before my first child,
spectrum miracle I never expected.

Turn me widdershins
and believe me when I
speak of sacrifice and lace,
an unspoken apology,
please don’t make me
say it. Love me anyway.

Turn me widdershins,
turn back the years until
I’m young again, a full
person under law, before
my skull was split and spliced,
when I knew what I wanted.

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