An I With Teeth Poem by David Floren

Any long-cornered
I (the loyal subject)
thinks he, she, or it
is perfectly womb-welcome.

First persons oft dream
of innocuous re-emergence.
Second-chance prayers swarm:
Less drops fell when it rained.

Refer now to the once-I
In the third person.
And quick as thunderclap
At once this “I” floods back,

Loud with royal pronouncements
Of changes in ownership:
His, or her, or its soul.
Hale. Guilt-drained, I’d say.

Hardened with a new pronoun
that's hard to pronounce,
but blessed, nonetheless.

Allthemore,

An infant built from Yes!
knows when not to nay-say.
Even as a baby, it wisely gummed:
“An I to me was bequeathed.'

Now it’s an I with teeth.