Some things never change, they say,

but some do.

Yesterday I was not

here yet today I am.

I have chopped my legs off, replaced them with iron cramps, clipped,

clipped, and clipped my nails, so that they would grow stronger. I have

carved rows out of my arms and hands, now

I am puffing steamclouds through eyes I do not need anymore,

I gouged them out, you can call me a monster,

recoil from me, uselessly, too late,

or you can come along, leave your own behind to eat the dust that

we will have shaken off our feet, trust me, only I will

be able to tell you why Governors Island

drifted into the open sea, everyone else will have

watched without seeing that I was born, while I, yes, I

hatched out of the Statue of Liberty, wiped

the island free from useless inhabitants, then

boarded it, let my hands

hit the waves and electrielectrieclectricity

stream from the wheels between my lids. Listen. Tomorrow all those

you think you belong to




been able to see

how we cross the ocean,

index on the map, eyes glued

to the compass

thinking only of home, calling

now is the time to discover continents and draw the charts, no,

they will not, but you, if you

come along, shall sail

by my side, looking out

to the promised land

while the mother of exiles lays aside her torch to

descend from her pedestal, pull a scale out of the deep, blue sea, and

start to weigh destinies, not ours.