Partial Justice (a poem)


Pieces of my me,littered about this apartment,

seemingly organized into piles

of too little, too much and other

offending categories.

My me,

there! Sprinkled about

like dirty laundry, soiled

to the point behind tide

and rolled up as a public display

of what we’re not going to do.

My me,

circumcised and misread,

from Kenta to Tobi,

as scripts performed by and from 

men before my time,

and thrust around my neck

and soul, because there is not yet

proof of my difference,

my me,

Is a collection of assertions and allegations,

now.

My me,

looks so lost,

from the vantage point of 

naked flesh,

coated in Shea and washed in

black soap,

house smudged

but a spell separates

flesh from 

my me,

has been Guantanamo’d

no trial is necessary. The evidence 

Is in pieces

And we have a 

learned Judge.

-Partial Justice

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