This is the key to it.
This is the key to everything.
Preciously.I am worse than the gamekeeper's children
picking for dust and bread.
Here I am drumming up perfume.Let me go down on your carpet,
your straw mattress -- whatever's at hand
because the child in me is dying, dying.It is not that I am cattle to be eaten.
It is not that I am some sort of street.
But your hands found me like an architect.Jugful of milk! It was yours years ago
when I lived in the valley of my bones,
bones dumb in the swamp. Little playthings.A xylophone maybe with skin
stretched over it awkwardly.
Only later did it become something real.Later I measured my size against movie stars.
I didn't measure up. Something between
my shoulders was there. But never enough.Sure, there was a meadow,
but no yound men singing the truth.
Nothing to tell truth by.Ignorant of men I lay next to my sisters
and rising out of the ashes I cried
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