She al-ways said

I was a good

one—shape      shif-ter child

heart like          a spider             web

guess it makes sense.
Surviv-al is       adapt-at-ion      and old

Black Hood has been    at my heels           since birth

yellowed forehead squalling

under      humid-icrib      lights.

Too-soon, too-small, couldn’t

hold me for days

maybe why       I still hit             the deck

inside hospit-als.
Can’t list-en to heart-beats

not mine, or any

one else             ’s.

One Eas-ter       she hid

a live rabbit             inside

my back-pack  its shock             puls-ing

through ribs     into         my hands
I could    n’t bear              to hold it

can’t ever rest

my head on a lover          ’s chest;

haunted by palpit-a-tions.