In the Mud

My evil doppelgangers have appeared:

overweight women who take off

clothes on traffic medians,

confess to a clay eating fetish, spray paint

purple haired portraits on police cars.

“Is that you?” people keep asking,

“Are you sure it’s not?”

Perhaps I should go underground like a desert toad,

hibernate through this drought of perception,

hope desert winds blow away my imposters,

but really I want the rain to revive all of us,

re-emerge with my sisterhood crew,

lick the clay from our lips,

show off our muddy bodies,

and breed like mad in the tiniest of puddles.