It’s me, myself, no other who’s lying

on this filthy mattress in this hospital

corridor, cloudsick, humiliated

by their procedures, by the samples

that they’ve taken.

                                &, yes,

it’s me, myself, no other who has

but one intention: to make it perfectly clear

that my most ardent wish is to leave as I came –

on my hands and knees, crawling.

                                                         &, yes,

it’s yours truly, this humble petitioner

that you see before you who will crawl,

naked, to each in turn, to each

of the mothers, to submit

to their wrath.

                         & myself, no

other who will present you, made

with my own hands, of my hair, of dirt

from under my nails, an effigy of myself

to do with as you will.

                                     & myself, no

other, who’s stripped to the waist

in this dim hole, who for twelve hours each night

shovels coal into a boiler – steam

for an engine that must be, can only be

an engine of war

                            &, yes, it’s

me, no other, who, entering a room

that I thought was empty, finds it full

of steamer trunks & in each, as I lift

its lid, the evidence of a failed migration –

a blue snake, hibernating, oblivious

to the intoxication of my flute.

                                                  & me,

alone, hugging myself, who’s crooning

a lullaby as the ox is dismissed, as it sinks

into mist – the ox painted blue

that brought me here cradled

in its horns.

                    & myself, no

other who, coming amongst strangers,

can understand their language as if

it was my own, their discourse

of dead horses, of empire, of excrement

& tedium.

                 & myself, yours

truly, no other, who, at the end

of a long journey, was given a tent

in this camp of cowards, who tonight

around a fire as we warm ourselves, in

gratitude, in terror, will place on the lips

of each of my comrades a kiss

of betrayal.