The Poem I Didn't Write

came on me in daylight
where they dress deer
for burger or roast.

I didn't want to write
about the doe
legs stiff in the air

and the young boy
camouflaged to the hilt
checking out her privates.

I wanted no part
of what flooded me
like memory, my own body

unconscious, splayed for
the catheter before surgery.
But here it is,

a protest gaining strength,
the poem like a sit-in,
like a print job in a queue

refusing other poems,
desiring the body's dignity,
even in the dismemberings.