to say “my book” is an offense, a middle
finger straight up to the heavens that says
this here belongs to me. man. woman. us.
what? is God going to reach down and pluck
the pages out of our fingers? pull the plow
born on a mountaintop, mother screams
loud enough to reach the village below
a collection of marbles in a fist.
I know where you come from
with that leek strung through your teeth.
the bulb dangles like a moon.