And I Am Not

Written January 25, 2010

she clutches a slip of paper—
a reminder of her purpose today,
courage for when her voice fails.

how long
has this plan between her fingers
been waiting?

she swallows as his shoes approach.
this tomorrow has come,
after many before it,
and she shakes as she vows to seize it,
worried that she’ll plan not for another.
he says hello, but he has to go,
but wait—she has something to ask.
“I’ll walk with you,” to buy time,
as her throat tightens and dries.

the ink smears in the sweat and rain.
no fallback now,
just a leap:

what do you know?
what do you see?
why do they see,
what you don’t?

she says
I don’t want to be a god.

he knows,
and she looks into his eyes,
and no longer needs
justification.