I am angrier than I look. Know that
my smile is a wincing nod to the deep
heat that churns in my breast; If I show that,
I lose my place in my races' great leap:
The great leap into the society
that runs from me under welcome welkin;
on beautiful days, the hate is thirsty,
and it drinks up the blood of scared women:
Their legs run for them, from my blissful face,
styling and smiling, profiling up close;
they run in jeans, in dreams, in sweats – in ways
imperceptible – they scamper in droves:
Like a roach-full floor under the struck light,
they run for their safety, and they are right.