You could have
taught me German, shared
your warm, quilt-making, simmering
cobbler art; and
Spooned my arcana's
dark, forested sustenance concocted
by healers and dreamers anointed
in motherwort witchery.
But I was judged
unworthy and wear my
wrongness like a mud-splattered
shoe whose shame prints disturb
a white floor.
I am badly joined, a
covering of knotted nubs pieced by
blind hands. My broken threads and
small irregularities assure a place
outside the circle of inclusion. You fear
I might unravel.