In the throes
of my intention
disorder, I forget
your name, how to reach
the top of you, how to
let go of those limbs 

you wave over me.
In these fits, the stories
I tell are not mine
except when they are.
That I come from ash,
that my mother left me 

in the rain
without a skeleton
shelter, that I still
eat dirt (raw not baked)—
these are some of the ones
I intend to qualify 

when I no longer suffer
from disease over the way
jacks wish to cut you down.