tanka
I had surgery on Friday. Today I wrote this tanka, it has been changed into a tanka sequence. It was accepted for publication. I was thrilled. Coming Out shrouded in mist I wear a torn place on my sleeve — turning like a mirror on a string a key in a lock, I have no more tongue than a wound beads of an abacus— the shed skin of a snake remembers what it once held calculating all the ways I numbed myself casting minute after minute into the wind . . . taking off the mask