1994.
I was leaving my 58th year when a thumb of ice
stamped itself near my heart.
You have your own story.
You know about the fear, the tears, the scar of disbelief,
You know the saddest lies are the ones we tell ourselves.
You know how dangerous it is to be born with breasts.
You know how dangerous it is to wear dark skin.
I was leaving my 58th year when I
woke into the winter of a cold and mortal body.
Thin icicles hanging off, the one mad nipple weeping.
Have we not been good children?
Did we not inherit the Earth?
But you must know all about this from your own shivering life.