sitting in a home, full of white privilege
i try to comprehend what it means
to be “of color,” never feeling much
like a “person” in the first place
i have my own marginalized class
to live within, lgbtqia—
sadly, i hardly know
what it means to be i or a
and when i recall my even more
underserved, neglected, abused,
my “they” & “them,” my “brethren”
& “sistren” & “othren”
i wonder who’s supposed to come first…
poor me, right?
in the middle of covid-isolation, i feel
something familiar welling,
i read long diatribes begging me
to understand what my privilege is
that if only i own it, not that i need
to cultivate guilt, but if i truly own it
i’ll understand what needs
to come to bear
but as pale as my skin may be
i have no power
or none i know how to wield,
i settle into my whiteness
checking my judgment as best i can
watching bits of my own city burn
wanting to wrap my arms around
the people crying out in pain
yet i fear i feel the knees
of trusted ones
pressing down on my own neck
as others stand by
looking away,
i find it so hard to see the hope
in a world where cooler minds fail
and the biggest white dicks prevail
