My hair is drenched and heavy
with the icy cataract of knowledge:
no more can I carry my head high,
free and strong in the certainty
of my being desired,
sought-for as sunwarmth,
needed as green, clean air
and the morning phrase of birds.
I stand in the cold downpour
of your casual contempt,
and my flesh draws taut
while the blood runs like chilly needles
in and through, holding me together
by red stitches of pride.
p. 33
