Mama, I don’t pick fights with anyone 

but if my telos as Master’s disciple is to be a megaphone

for others, don’t you wonder what happens

if when I speak all I hear are echoes? 


In high school, running all the way to Chambers

I laughed as I caught the train back home to Papa.

I did not know behind his smile was rage, which like Isaiah’s 

was rooted in the wrongness of the World.


One day, a man with tanned elbows swirled

his knuckle in my waist through my down jacket.

I looked at the man across from me to say something.

I walked to the other side of the train at Queensboro.


Later, when a man pressed my neck 

against the wall, twisting my arms like rubber,

I knew better than to look around for sympathy.

I struggled to get loose from his hands.


Slowly I jumped through rocks with scraped knees, 

learning why the Spartans left their young out.

When I learned those eyes went after
my dear friend too, I felt relief before rage.


I learned to play with the coins in my hand.

The enemies I slay are not dragons but scarecrows I burn 

for every girl I ever was, every girl who thought

maybe she had wronged the world by existing.