By Audre Lord
Is the alphabet responsible
for the book
in which it is written
that makes me peevish and nasty
and wish I were dumb again?
We practiced drawing our letters
digging into the top of the desk
and old Sister Eymard
rapped our knuckles
until they bled
she was the meanest of all
and we knew she was crazy
but none of the grownups
would listen to us
until she died in a madhouse.
I am a bleak heroism of words
the refuse
to be buried alive
with the liars.
