It was a threat in the face of a threat
between women with a taste for it. No one yet
knew what either was capable of.
 
And there I hid, translucent bauble buried
in granulose, in my mother’s pelvic splendor—
the biggest secret I would ever be.
 
Little dark horse gene.
Little blanched pollen cinder.
 
When I was born, my great-grandmother didn’t like
my look, but she never pulled the trigger
on me. She gagged, I guess. And so, I lived.
 
It’s a superpower
to be hunted by your own.
 
Something else to say to your enemies,
If you’re serious about endings,
 
here we go.
Beautiful name, chaotic people,
I tell my students. The trick is to blame up.
 
I was never my ancestors’
wildest dreams. No. I was a thing wrapped inside a thing
one of them had a mind to kill but couldn’t.

—Destiny O. Birdsong

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS

A note from the artist: This artwork is part of “Who Cares?”, a traveling exhibition of painted portraits that honors caregivers and their gracious generosity. To bring the conversation to your community, contact PDubroof (at) gmail (dot) com.