ears stuffed with wax—
now hearing Circe
on the inside
*
scraping the ink
off my pages, sending it
for biopsy
*
one palm open
in surrender, the other
rubs the genie lamp
*
not for your pleasure
the winter bird sings—
it sings
*
thinking I outgrew
myself, finding out
I still fit
*
surprise! the genie
says no to three wishes
gives fifteen instead