I have told my tragedy to some who
balk at my persisting breath. Evidence
of survival forces the witness to
proceed with that absurd calculation—
this body, having already borne a
self-sustained quagmire of indignities,
is pulverized through cruelty of man—
Unthinkable, they say, and grind soul-dust
to funeral ash as they hurry to
retreat to their former reality,
those camouflaged nerves. I am bound to grief
as tides follow the moon’s certain rhythm,
to shame as a canyon transforms with rain.
I was condemned before I knew my form
so I fashioned a frame from my mother’s
blanched ire and my father’s inclination
to escape by air or sea. See my eyes:
blue-gray irises rimmed by inferno-
residue— What am I but dregs of sin:
a wretched pest of the abyssal plain—