A rumor concerning pains, prisons,
palatial traumas … they made what we read, slapped in vision, mother riding
harder than father. Many apologetics, full blame over-there, mirrors remaining
silent. I would die by age seven, hated for color, on a thin line, either left
or right, catching hell, sensing excellence, with time seeming cruel. I can feel!
I have emotion! I fear intuition! Each afflatus, so close to vulnerability,
pretending control—over dynamite dynamics. Used and discarded, loved and made
to regret love, pulled and surrendered; by seal and ribbon, by sugarcane and
resistance, sure struggle to achieve. Be proud to be colored. Be proud to be
woman. Be responsible to achieve manhood. Through walls, and souls are wailing,
to carry a whale; trauma made explosive, anxiety in her eyes, so insecure,
raised by a depressed mother. Either powers or thrills. Either love or
miseries. The massive weight of being good, trying to ignore the trauma, aged
to surrender and live.
