It was a dream
in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rate
at what my days had come to.
What, I pleaded with her, could I do?
Oh what could I have done?
And she twisted her wild hair
and sparkled her wild eyes
and screamed as long as I could hear her.
This. This. This.
-Lucille Clifton