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Lower-Case Woman
I dread the wrong look, the wrong word:
For the words of my mouth are construed in ways
That oppose the meditations of my heart;
They are unacceptable in the mass media's sight.
I dread the branding iron of calumny:
For to some it is my just desserts
For the circumstances of my birth,
Not the content of my character.
I dread the wrong votes cast:
For constructive support is twisted
Like a wrought-iron fence, plowshare beaten by another hand
Into the semblance of a sword aimed at another's heart.
Who am I?
I am silent.
What am I?
I am nameless.
When am I?
I am become the changeless past.
I am a lower-case woman, denizen of nothing:
But my designated quarter of shame.
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