You woke up, and you couldn’t breathe, so
you can’t possibly be saying this now. Besides

the pronouns are confused, and academics
will tell you such “splintering
of identity” is dangerous. Dangerous

for you, a young black woman,
proud and in complete control
of your destiny. As a long-haired

white boy, joint dangling from ironic-
slid mouth, the sidewise reference

places you square outside the dominant discourse.
Picasso and Braque could do it, but

the women in the room distract them both.
Who needs this shit, anyway? Poetry
promises to lift you out of your skin

just for a moment, but it doesn’t explain
how disappointed you’ll be to come back down.