What am I here to do?

I wondered in the early morning's night.

What work has to be done?

Knowing the answer wouldn't come,

I ask the question even then.

I ask,

though there is no one there.

My words infuse the heavy air

and then land hard,

on me again.

I close my eyes

and I endure

the pounding rain

remolding,

hitting,

chiseling

me all, from the inside.

And then I walk in light

unfinished, implausible,

beaten and bruised,

right here, in my guts and ribs,

where you can't see.

This is very important, I’ve been taught:

should not let a soul see,

should not imply in eyes, in gesture,

or worse,

in words,

that I am not as human

as I appear to be.

That I am not like you--

the way you look to me.