Too many times you looked at me like my fingers were grasping the switch
that would rock your electric chair.
No, I will not hold a life in my hands.
I am not your executioner or your liberator,
I am not your Christ.
Stop thinking of me as a raven in a graveyard,
my beak stabbing the ground, waking the dead.
Stop imagining me with the sky and earth in each palm,
bringing them together with a clap —
ground-shaker, thunder-maker, heaven-swallower.
I will not hold the world in my throat or on my back.
I will cough it out, I will thrust it off.
The only thing worse than being treated like an animal
is being treated like a god.
Too many times you gave me your heart to weigh against a feather.
Too many times you looked at me like I was Fate with her cruel scissors.
Slowly, deliberately, one by one
I lift away my fingers.