My body is an injury the worldcan’t seem to heal from— you would expect it goneby now, and yet each nextday it persists, still implementingits same staunch pain, atrocious,railed against, assumedby the world to be an ingeniouscomeuppance, a vengeanceagainst it—what did it do
what did the world do
to warrant my body within it,smarting, to warrant each of ourbodies within it, crowdingthe sites of abuse, assessing ticketprices, asking how much to see the slave house, how muchto touch the indented names of the killed, how much to enterthe slatted cell and size it, close behind us its wrought door, oh
actually that one’s free
