SEE ME NO MORE

My skin is white, my skin
is black. I am a good person, I am
not a good person. I am good at fixing things,
always was. I am not handy with tools.
These different identities
tend to blend together. Who I was
to my mother and father
is not who I am to these people
before me. You are suddenly the outsider
looking inside, and you wonder if anyone in there
still knows who you are.

There are some bridges
that just won’t burn, even
if you make little effort—
the last trace of light
on the horizon, the last sip of tea
in a clear glass.

(6 February 2007)