Photo by Alex Hockett on Unsplash

If two sameselves make
a paradox, then so is my birth;
one roll of the die
with infinite sides.
I oscillate between possibilities
like a speck of dust
caught in vision.
A child of coincidence,
one branch of Yggdrasil,
born to yearn for fruit.
I’d like to reconfirm
my own existence, ensure
that I was some other
unknown in an equation.
I need to verify that there
is a purpose to this permanence.
I’d like to see
the snip of the tether
between this poem and the next.
To be free under a maiden blade.
To be named again and again.

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