Well-bred ladies and gentlemen,
all properly brought up,
their guarded faces kept in masks,
watch my halting steps.
The road is clearly marked, they say,
for those who choose to look.

I tell me legs (as if they didn’t know) the path to take.
At journey’s end
I will become the apple of their painted eyes.
The rhythms of my heart will synchronize with theirs,
and I will claim my prize.

I pause.
I long to leave my legs upon the earth
and soar beyond those eyes;
not take the regulated path
where hollow promises destroyed my wings.

I stand upon the path
with tangled legs that cannot find the way.
Precisely painted heads wag back and forth
and whisper words I cannot hear.

The unclaimed prize awaits:
I will be loved,
but only if I die to everything within.

6-13-1995

In the throes of depression, I felt that only by abandoning personal power and giving in to violation would I become visible, even if it meant visible enough to be a target.