Now I will switch to the poem with the dumbest
title I have ever composed, but I like the poem.
It's called "Self-Portrait as Sock Puppet."
"My son offers eyes, scavenging the plastic box
and gluing me lidless near the hole beneath my cranium.
Now the images pour forth, table strewn alchemical.
A button for the mouth--
a button for the nostrils.
And he bends to offer breath from dust, a mouth of pipe
cleaner, coiled to enable speech.
Sequin and bead unsilence me, affixed against each temple.
Thus, he bids me speak, and I obey,
for he touches my fledgling tongue with a glowing coal.
Yarn for my hair, yarn for my chin,
and he teaches, sound by sound, the shimmering unhanseled
quaver that becomes my name.
I speak it brokenly, not yet certain what I am.
Fingers curl.
Into my new skin, he guides my hand."