to
not be cruel
one
morning over eggs and bread
I
looking upon the smooth winter cold
he
standing at the stove, spatula in hand
I
do not want to be a man, he said
I
passed the salt and wondered
how
could I not be cruel
when
I have never really wanted
to be
one either
I
don’t know
the
impotent pain
the
mute frustration
of
seeing so many torn souls
and
isolated body parts
lying
at my feet.
but
how could I not be cruel
when
I know she dances every night
dark
and quivering in her booth
above
the army surplus
the
lit up mannequins displaying
parkas,
bombers, and other
war
paraphernalia
and
how could I not be cruel
knowing
so many others
who
want more than diapers
baby
food
and
stolen clothes?
and
how could I not be cruel
knowing
myself
the
searing sting of being ripped open dry
bled
into and
left
to die
by
those who would blacken our eyes and
break
our bones?
but
I don’t know what it is
to
be unwillingly among those who
blacken
the eyes and break the bones.
I
don’t know what it is
to
be the blade
who
wishes desperately to be
the
challis.
so
how
how
can I not be cruel?
Katie
Kadwell, written winter 1989, revised winter 2000.
