Wrongbodied
Like this baby boy standing there on the corner,
hand in jean pocket, lolly too like a cigarette;
even small is too big for him. And winter
too small for the smallest snow, so there is none.
None is too many for me. If I had any, I’d leave
them all. A baby so cynical in his wrongbody is not
loveable, but past love. I am. God, if it were
you I’d change you, as if you’d need changing
and you do. God, if it were you I’d say, “Pick me, God.”
Next corner, God, me.
—Brenda Shaughnessy
[Submit to Fathom’s forthcoming anthology of poems + essays of the #NeverTrump Resistance here.]
SHARKPACK Poetry Review 