Public Speech

It is not very often me.
When it is, I start
by holding on to hatred.

I believe it is freedom.
I believe it is the smallest stone
of the self. Inside the walls

of the dream, I can’t stand,
I can’t lie down.
So I survive by hunching.

And it’s not that hard.
The blows—I survive them too.
Bones split on the grain, or,

brittle from hunger, snap
like twigs under boot soles.
It’s not that hard to turn my back—

I’ve done it before—
to walk right out of my body,
to look back and see it surviving.

Maybe they’ve won. Maybe
it’s all they wanted, for me
to see me as they do.

Or is it what I wanted—
to walk away, then turn back
and force myself to answer.