Slave Narrative

I haven’t the heart for harsh imaginings.
I am the figure in the window which speaks not.
The spiral staircase that leads to nowhere.
The bit of consciousness stripped naked under
reproving hope.

I am the wondering eye beneath the awning.
I am the gossip borne beneath your daughters’ sheets.
The forgotten sense of self traded for a tiny little hand-bag
full of lies – lies, and jealousy.

I am the old woman, cane broken, whispering power.
The young man who had no lines the whole play.
The forceful bit of grace left in the crevice of
the walls of the local super-mall.

I am the broad spade on the clearance rack.
You will buy me for less than half a dollar,
never use me, then sell me
down the river, always always down the river.