I feel like a me-
like shape, like the real she
has cast me off, spurt me out
and left me to face her predators,
like the real me is off
enjoying her airpocketless body,
while I stay behind going blotto,
a so-so blurb on the back of a book,
a blurry word. My beak keens
for something to say, but I'm a bubble
that's lost its thought, an ink-tank
without a think. O morph, o nym,
I'm know I'm just your pseudo,
your thin skin, but please
return my heart and other vitals.
It's thankless, this being like,
this being not quite right.
Stephen F. Austin State University Press
Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Hoogs
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission