THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR

TO SPEAK FROM THE WOUND

From what wound should I speak? Woman, Black, Daughter,
or Other? Which wound will vindicate me? If blood must
be provided, I can provide blood. If I must die, I can die,
trust me. I can die and remain dead, drenched, at last,
in something like grace. Humanity, for me, was never promised
but, at times, I confess I did feel almost human. Almost
is the cruelest word. I have lived longest in the brightest regions
of almost-almost beautiful, almost good enough, almost wanted-
in what could otherwise almost be a home. When I thought
I knew how to pray, I asked God for a somewhere, a proper
come-from, a real chance to be someone for a day. When I opened
my eyes, I was nowhere, a nothing, kissing the hand of the executioner
again while a nothing wearing my face like a mask pleaded
from the execution block of the mind, not for mercy,
but for a sharper blade. We become something in death
and, sometimes, not even then. Sometimes, not even then.
From what wound should I speak? Woman, Black, Daughter,
or Other? If I must die, I can die, trust me.