I am a hesitation, a catch

in the throat when speaking. I was born in a hiccup,

swaddled in half a stuttered word.

My life has been a piece of paper

slipped between a piano’s ivory teeth,

no notes struck on the way down.

I am stained by such sins

that only in dreams can I recall

the autumnal orange of my hands—

the last vestige of fall’s dying light.

Awake they are still the

hue of death, that bitter blue-white

blossoming at fingertips.