After two years of growing, my bum leg feels like stone–
bumpy, rock-hard as solid silt–tan, gray, red earthlike stone.
The word disability teases my wellbeing–
it’s as if I can see it etched on granite gravestone.
In the dark, under cover, I can be anything
new. Imagine a shape-shifting creature, snakelike stone.
Like something new and inhuman, I loft myself high
into the air each day. My body, molelike millstone.
Skin so hard, sharp teeth, the quick mind of a wanting thing,
If they have anything to say, they might as well strike stone.