I find myself in baron land,
land and space, space
between boxes of construction
and wonder who else lives
in this grid of exile
where voices echo and
cool air pushes
against your balance,
against your integrity,
against your ideals

I refuse to entertain marksmen
who see me and drool, they
want to box me up, section me off
assign me to a class, race, sex
explain it to others
feel some control over
something, someone

I am running in the gridlines,
sidelines, secret passageways,
and corridors, my sanity
dodging their nets,
their glass boxes,
their rubber rooms,
and clipboards that tell you
who you are, without ever asking
your name

I run along beams of construction
the scaffolding my life has reduced to
and sometimes the tight ropes
hold tight my tongue, and I
feel myself gag in their presence

but I choke up my passions
and spit blood at their feet
cuz my blood cannot deny me

my blood does not lie
even when it falls to their feet,
even then, it will dance and rejoice
as their tongues fall to the floor
in disbelief of all I can be

and in the same minute--
they will draw in their tongues
wash the blood from their feet,
deny what they saw,
and stereotype me
again.

12/20/2001

Posted on 12/20/2001
Copyright © 2024 Julie Adams