The funny thing is
I’ve been told I have a gift
for expressing complicated ideas.
But of course there’s complicated,
and then there’s shooting
one spinning coin
from horseback, eighteen
miles away, blindfold and victim
to a chronic, unrelenting seizure.
And I really do mean that.
(I think, anyway.)
Swear, if I knew my name
I’d pin myself down like a moth
on a sheet of card and prise out
my teeth until I had some
more specific truth.
But even that is slippery,
silk on varnish, though coarser by far.
© Deanna Scutt, 2017