You Would Never Know It

                 

                      I am a wild  thing.
You would never know it to look at me, the most invisible:
        a plump, graying white woman in frumpy clothes.

                       Oh, I don't care!

That is the freedom, as free as
       a nose-picking, butt-scratching, tree-climbing six-year-old.

I grew out of dirt, I rolled in dirt and leaves,
I straddled the tree branch, I was the tree.
I flew in the wind,
I screamed.

They tried to keep me down,
      but I was molten at the core,
      my eyes blazed out,
      my power built and built,
      and one day I blew
      and flamed hot lava all over the world.

I was the most dangerous creature on earth:
     a sexual woman,
     the maw of my power engulfed all men.
     I drew them into me
     and fed my energies,
     or flung them off like chaff in the wind.

I was the creator of symphonies, of great tragedies.
I was Sarah Bernhardt, who fainted when she was bored.
I could have been Cleopatra.
I chose to live a simpler life,
     but I smiled secretly.

I birthed twins, since one was not enough.
     I might have been pregnant for years, I was so fertile.
     I would have a child of every race,
     people the earth with my lovely, lively, mocha, almond,
     boundless offspring.
                  I am always the mother
                  among all the mothers.

Now I am the goddess of no face,
     the wind, the full moon.
     I slip among you,
     watching,
     pitying your ambition,
     the weight of your work, your struggle for recognition.
                I know everything and nothing.
I fly over it all,
    look down on anthills, the log rolled over,
    see the ocean still relentless,
    the jet stream,
    solar storms.

              I close my eyes.