Michael: Bastard Child
by Livia
12/27/99

There must be words for what we are,
in ourselves and to each other. Where we're from
there must be words for what I feel. Because
they sure as hell aren't here. I know. I've read
from Buddha to Ulysses. And sure.
Some books speak to me. But never in my language.

I dream words, innate like my powers,
but wake again a wild, illiterate, feral child
trapped in the growls of the wolves that raised me,
my greatest pleasures, truest moments, ever to be wordless--
hot taste of mouth, red smear of paint, the visions.

Bastard child is what I am... even if they came tomorrow,
will or would I be more than hybrid, half-and-half,
product of both worlds, belonging to neither,
wordless even with my own people, mute,
and therefore and finally and wholly
(and yes, there's a word for this, oh yes,
oh God how goddamned ironic)
alien?


[end]