Contingent

People are not supposed to bend like that
Folded into boxes all sharp angles and corners
I don’t fit into these boxes
Or these clothes
Or this body bag
Tagged and traced from one end
Of the morgue to the other
Still screaming that I am alive
As the autopsy begins
People are not supposed to weep like that
Tears in rivers and drowned anguish
I don’t decide each day on wet cheeks
Or salt trails
Or that bitter taste
A cry into the sun for that warmth
Denied
I don’t decide or deny
And if I fling arrows from this damned bow
Will you understand?
That outrageous fortune has left me gone?

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