Paradise, Awakening
They
shoot the white girl first.
I look for her—the white girl—
try to understand if her
whiteness made her die
or if she stupidly stood in the
live-fire hall
or if she’s first because she’s
close.
I look for her because in Morrison’s
world
I am the white girl, whether I
like the girl or not.
She’s
got some notion in her head
concerning
the eternal rights of women.
Some. Notion. And I’m concerned
because
these are my rights, but the boys
before me
aren’t convinced. Why should Edna
wake from a dream where wiggled
fingers
are covered with rings, where
homecoming
means chocolates in pretty boxes?
The girls seethe quietly until I
let them roar.
Quiet. Quiet.
There will be time to scream.
Now is the time to listen, read.
Now is the time to stare down
reflections
in this distorted funhouse while
the platform
shakes the floor.
If it all falls out, we’ll have
to find a way
to stand. If that white girl makes me
her human shield, if Edna plunges
your head
into the bay, scrambles up your
shoulders,
and tries to float on your
flailing fat
we’ll have to find a way
to understand.
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