Yet Here He Was

He never knew a moment

when he wasn’t conjuring a fantasy
of some extravagant impossibility –

some project to extinguish
all that made him so intolerably singular.
The internal psychological regalia

he’d co-opted to pretend that he
was male was doomed, of course, to fail.
He lacked all trace of genitalia.

He lacked, in fact, a single clue
about his place in his infernally
capacious Universe.

He’d sooner curse the whole
than to embrace one tiny aspect
of the horror of his soul.

Everything was sorrowfully wrong:
eternal proof of his exclusion.
Nothing didn’t long for an inclusion.

All was empty buzz.
Yet here he was.
God’s navel fuzz.






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