What a gift I have been given,
a life with no particular history:
the space to consider birds and flowers,
to ponder the stars and origins,
with no need to think of tribes,
nor themes imported from the past.
There’s no stigma I must face,
nothing like the slap of the daily insult,
or some afternoon when a mob gathers
with death on the agenda;
no heritage I dare not ignore,
the Peculiar Institution or the deadly ships--
nothing I can’t refuse to remember,
nor any need to embrace truths
which feel like grasping nettles.
What I have is a gift to be free:
free to experience late summer primrose
and the magic of a red moon,
but it only invites the question:
how did I come to deserve this?
No comments:
Post a Comment