“but she means to have what she
has earned,
sweet sighs, safe houses,
hands she can trust.”
— Lucille Clifton, “to my friend, Jerina”
He can’t tell I grit my back teeth when he exclaims,
“An allergy to coffee? I’ve never heard of that!”, and I shrug,
as if this is the first time someone has expressed their
incredulity so profoundly, I say, “It happens”. I’m gracious,
calm, I mean if you discount the slightest shortening of my
upper lip, a bit of a curl really, I wouldn’t say a sneer. I
used to explain myself and my faulty body, swim full-tilt into
conversational nets full of marvel and pitying curiosity.
I’ve stopped. Accepted it. And maybe I sigh,
but I mean to have what I
reach for: clean safe air, lungs rounded with ease, the boring
sort of acceptance, a normalised story about my body.
I want chemical masks as quotidian accessories, like umbrellas
or hats. I want the bread-like, unexceptional family violence
that led to this, that sickened and curled me, so many
of us, up inside, like xylem slowly dying inside a turned
tree trunk, unseen but heavy with consequences, to be
recognised, protested, uprooted by outrage and
practical solutions, never-again changes, forever spurned.
We have earned
the revolution. We’ve struggled to see ourselves reflected
in the dirty surface of the mainstream; to meet our bedrock
yearning for safety, gentleness, absence of swinging fists
or planks of wood, of flying spit, sometimes laced with acrid
words; to cobble together access, sometimes cutting wood
planks for a ramp, sometimes asking friends, spouses,
strangers, to change their detergent, give up their
favourite shampoo or deodorant. As abnormal and
inconvenient as we seem, we deserve carefree carouses,
sweet sighs, safe houses,
same as you who can breathe the poison in, let it wash
through your blood, let your liver scrape it all out like a washing
machine while you talk, laugh, sleep, same as you who
can walk far, carry your groceries, can function when the music
is so loud it’s thick in the air, in our breastbones, our brains.
But our differences are rarely invited, planned for, discussed.
So I am a delicate fucking flower; you can’t drink coffee next to
me, or peel an orange, smoke, sip wine, invite me to dance parties.
But I will still surprise you: claim this body and safety and lust,
reach for hands that I can trust.
Found at The Deaf Poets Society - Issue 8
https://www.deafpoetssociety.com/kamila-rina-issue-8