I’m a Monster
By Maggie Smith
in the lake’s murky mirror,
skin wavering green,
wrinkled by wind.
My eyes, blurring
in their sockets,
are still my father’s.
My mouth, my mother’s.
What parts of me are not
borrowed, pieced together
from other bodies?
Even this poor reflection
is proof I was cut
from a body, born
an animal. Proof I am
never without the ones
who made me.
I dip a stick in the lake
and stir my face away.
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